44 


ND  THEY 
THOUGHT 

WE 
WOULDN'T 

1?    1    C*    H  HT 

FLOYD  GIBBONS 


Not  Transferable. 


Instructions  on  Back 


From 


To 


during  which  available.*1   ^Qf  p. 

/{<^/«..s  :?  3 y  f 

The  perspjf  named  below  is  permitted  to 
[kiss  within  th«  area  occupied  by  the  Ameri- 
can Army  with  or  williouta  motorcycle  or  car 
during  the  period  slated  hereon. 

This  Pass  is  not  to  be  accepted  if  the  name 
originally  entered  on  il  is  erased  ami  another 
name  substituted. 

Name 


I'nit 


Signature  and 
Stamp  of 
Issuing  (tiricer. 


! 


lstbe  LAISSER-PASSER 

Valal.lrUi!  ..  .  ... 


La  personne  nominee  ri-dessous  est  auto- 
rise  a  circuler  dans  la  zone  occupec  par 
1'Armee  Americaine  avec  on  sans  moto- 
cyclette  on  voiture  automobile  pendant  la 
peridde  specified  ci-dessus, 

Cette  carte  cesse  d'etre  valable  an  eas  on  le 
iioin  dii  portcur  serai  1  efface  et  remplarn  par 
mi  autre  noin. 


INSTRUCTIONS. 

Ihlt  Pat*  to  be  shown  when  demanded. 

II  in  not  transferable  and  maul  be  signed  by  the 
bearer. 

No  Pass  is  \alid  unless  stamped  with  a 
special  Pass  Stamp  of  an  A.  P.  M.  and  the 
Hank,  and  appointment  of  the  issuing  Officer 
is  added  after  his  signature. 

If  issued  for  a  shorl  period  only,  the 
word  "temporary"  must  be  written  on  the 
face  of  the  Puss. 

The  Loss  of  a  Pass  or  the  finding  of  a 
Pass  is  I,  he-  reported  at  once  to  the  A,  P.  M. 
of  the  nearer!  formation. 


Sisrnnlurc  of  l>  inrcr 


INSTRUCTIONS. 

C.e  laisser-passer  devra  elre  pre'senle'  a  toule 
requisition 

II  est  slrictement  personnel  el,  doit  porter  la 
signature  du  lilulaire. 

Aiicuti  laisser-passer  n'est  valable  a  mo  ins     j 
cle  porter  la  grilTe  speciale   de  I'  "Assistant 
Provost  Marshal"  ainsi  que  la  siguature  de 
l'Oflicier  o,ui  le  delivrc,  suivio  des  grade,  corps 
on  emploi  de  ce  dernier. 

An  cas  oil  le  present  laisser-passer  tie  se- 
rait  delivrtf  que  pour  peo>  de  temps,  le  mot- 
"temporary    devrait  yelre 'eeril  an  reclo. 

En  eas  de  perte  dun  laisser-passer;  on  si 

no  laisser-passer  if  03  il  a  fitrc  dome,  le  fait 

devrait  (Mr.-  sivniiWtmf»''diiilenient  a  1. "Assis- 
tant Provost  Marshal  '  le  plus  prnrhe. 


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AMERICAN    EXPE 
ARMEE 

PRESS    CORRESI 

Permls 

Tl,e    bearer        '  4fM<TVUL,        ^P+yA 
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American  Expeditionary  Forcel  In  France  as  i 
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Hiprctenilnu  S^^JCat^aVay       IV 

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»V.«  do  l'Armeo  Am*riuln* 


AND  THEY  THOUGHT  WE  WOULD  N'T  FIGHT' 


FLOYD  GIBBONS 


"AND  THEY  THOUGHT 
WE  WOULD  NT  FIGHT 

y 

BY 

FLOYD   GIBBONS 

OFFICIAL   CORRESPONDENT   OF    THE  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE, 
ACCREDITED   TO   THE   AMERICAN   EXPE- 
DITIONARY  FORCES 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  George  E.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

GENERAL  JOHN  J.  PERSHING 

AND 

THE  AMERICAN  EXPEDITIONARY  FORCES 

I   RESPECTFULLY   DEDICATE   THIS   INADEQUATE   RECORD 

IN    REVERENT    MEMORY    OF 

OUR   SACRED   DEAD 

ON   FIELDS   IN   FRANCE 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The  author  expresses  his  hearty  thanks 
to  The  Chicago  Tribune  for  the  opportu- 
nity he  enjoyed  as  a  correspondent  of 
that  paper,  in  the  service  of  which  he  se- 
cured the  material  for  these  papers. 


Personal. 

AMERICAN    EXPEDITIONARY    FORCES 
OFFICE   OF  THE  COMMANOEB'INCHIEF 

Prance,  August  17,  1918. 


Mr.  Floyd  Gibbons, 

Care  Chicago  Tribune, 
420  Bue  Saint-Honore, 
Paris    - 

Dear  Mr.  Gibbons : 

At  this  time,  when  you  are  returning 
to  America,    I  wish  to  express   to  you  my 
appreciation  of  the  cordial  cooperation 
and  assistance  you  have  always  given  us 
in  your  important  work  as  correspondent 
of  the  Chicago  Tribune  in  Prance.        I 
also  wish  to  congratulate  you  on  the  honor 
which  the  French  government  has  done  you 
in  giving  you  .the  Croix  de  Guerre,   which 
is  but  a   just  reward  for  the  consistent 
devotion  to  your  duty  and  personal  bravery 
that  you  have  exhibited. 

My  personal  regrets  that  you  are 
leaving  us  at  this  time  are  lessened  by 
the  knowledge  of  the  great  opportunity 
you  will  have  of  giving  to  our  people  in 
America  a  true  picture  of  the  work  of  the 
American  soldier  in  France  and  of  impress- 
ing on  them  the  necessity  of  carrying  on 
this  work  to   the   end,   which  can  be  accom- 
plished only  by  victory  for  the  Allied 
arms.       You  have  a  great  opportunity,   and 

I  am  confident  that  you  will  grasp  it, 
as  you  have  grasped  your  past  oppor- 
tunities, with  success.       You  have  al- 
ways played  the  game  squarely  and  with 
courage,   and  I  wish  to  thank  you. 


Sincerely  yours, 


G.  Q.  G.  A.  le  July  28, 1918. 

commandement  en  chef 

des  Armees  Allies 


Le  G£n£ral 


Monsieur, 

I  understand  that  you  are  going  to  the  United  States 
to  give  lectures  on  what  you  have  seen  on  the  French  front. 

No  one  is  more  qualified  than  you  to  do  this,  after  your 
brilliant  conduct  in  the  Bois  de  Belleau. 

The  American  Army  has  proved  itself  to  be  magnificent 
in  spirit,  in  gallantry  and  in  vigor;  it  has  contributed  largely 
to  our  successes.    If  you  can  thus  be  the  echo  of  my  opinion 
I  am  sure  you  will  serve  a  good  purpose. 
Very  sincerely  yours, 

(Signed)   F.  Foch. 

Monsieur  Floyd  Gibbons, 

War  Correspondent  of  the  Chicago  Tribune. 


vni 


<^~~~ ^n^  „  <^6^  °  Q  C  A  -^-«J*Urt  1918. 


£,  <**^j 


Monsieur, 

Je   eaie   que  voue  allez  donner  das  conferences  auz 
Btat6-Unie  pour  raoonter   oe   que  voue  avez  vu  aur  le   front 
frangale. 

Pereonne  n'est  plus  quallfle   que  vous  pour  le   faire, 
aprOs  Totre  brlllante   condulte  au  Bole  BBLLKAU. 

L'Aroee  Amerlcalne   se  montre  magnlflque  de    sentiments, 
de  valeur  et  d' entrain,   elle  a  contribue  pour  une   large  part 
a  noe   succes.    SI  vous  pouvez  etre   l'echo  de  mon  opinion,    je 
n'y  verral   qu'avantage. 

Croyez,   Monsieur,  a  mes  meilleurs  eentlmanta. 


Monsieur  FLOYD  GIBBOUS 
Correepondant  de  Guerre  du  CHICAGO  TBI BURS. 


GRAND  QUARTIER  GENERAL 
DES  ARMEES  DU  NORD  ET  DU  NORD  E 

ETAT-MAJOR 

BUREAU  DU  PERSONNEL 

(Decorations) 


Order  No.  8809  D 


The  General  Commander-in-Chief  Cites  for  the  Croix 
de  Guerre 

M.  Floyd  Gibbons,  War  Correspondent  of  the  Chicago 
Tribune: 

"Has  time  after  time  given  proof  of  his  courage  and 
bravery  by  going  to  the  most  exposed  posts  to  gather 
information.  On  June  5,  1918,  while  accompanying  a  regi- 
ment of  marines  who  were  attacking  a  wood,  he  was  se- 
verely wounded  by  three  machine  gun  bullets  in  going  to 
the  rescue  of  an  American  officer  wounded  near  him — 
demonstrating,  by  this  action,  the  most  noble  devotion. 
When,  a  few  hours  later,  he  was  lifted  and  transported  to 
the  dressing  station,  he  begged  not  to  be  cared  for  until  the 
wounded  who  had  arrived  before  him  had  been  attended 
to." 

General  Headquarters,  August  2,  1918 
The  General  Commander-in-Chief 

(Signed)    Petain 


GRAifi)  QUARTIES    GSHERAX 
SK3  ABMBES  DU   NOW)  ET  DO  BORD-KT 
-:-o-:-o-:-o- :-o-:-o-:-o-:-o-:- 
ETAT  -   MAJOR 

BUREAU  DU  PSISOHNEL. 

(Deoorationa) 
— --000OOSOO000 

OBDRB  «•        8909  0 

-:-o-:-o-  :-o-:-o- 

Lo  Geiv  ral  Comirandant  en  Chef  Cite  a  l'Ordra  da  l'Armee  : 

M.   FLOY3  GIBBOSB.   Correepondant  da  Guerre  du  Chicago  Tribune: 

"A  donne  &  maintee  reprlaee  dee  preuvee  de  courage  et  de  bra- 
voure.   en  allant  recuellllr  dee  informations  aux  postea  loe  plus  ex- 
poses.   Le  5  Juin  1918,   aocompagnant  un  regiment  de  Fusiliers  narina 
qui  attaquait  un  bole,  a  ete  tr£e  grievemant  attaint  de  trola  ballea 
de  mitrailleuses  en  ae  portant  au  secoura  d'un  offlcier  aaericain 
bleese  a  aes  cotes,   faleant  ainsl  prauve.   en  cette  circonstance.   du 
plue  beau  denouement.   Releve  plueleure  beuree  aprea  et  transports  au 
poate  de  aeoouxe.   a  demands  h  ne  pas  etre  soigne  avant  les  blesses 
arrives  avant  lul." 

Au  Grand  Quartler  General,    le  Z  Aout  1918. 
LE  GEHERAL  COMJUJiDAMT  EN   CBEP. 


FOREWORD 

Marshal  Foch,  the  commander  of  eleven  million  bayo- 
nets, has  written  that  no  man  is  more  qualified  than  Gib- 
bons to  tell  the  true  story  of  the  Western  Front.  General 
Pershing,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  American  Expe- 
ditionary Forces,  has  said  that  it  was  Gibbons'  great 
opportunity  to  give  the  people  in  America  a  life-like 
picture  of  the  work  of  the  American  soldier  in  France. 

The  key  to  the  book  is  the  man. 

Back  in  the  red  days  on  the  Rio  Grande,  word  came 
from  Pancho  Villa  that  any  "Gringos"  found  in  Mexico 
would  be  killed  on  sight.  The  American  people  were  in- 
terested in  the  Revolution  at  the  border.  Gibbons  went 
into  the  Mexican  hills  alone  and  called  Villa's  bluff. 
He  did  more.  He  fitted  out  a  box  car,  attached  it  to  the 
revolutionary  bandits'  train  and  was  in  the  thick  of  three 
of  Villa's  biggest  battles.  Gibbons  brought  out  of  Mex- 
ico the  first  authoritative  information  on  the  Mexican 
situation.  The  following  year  the  War  Department  ac- 
credited him  to  General  Pershing's  punitive  expedition 
and  he  rode  with  the  flying  column  led  by  General  Persh- 
ing when  it  crossed  the  border. 

In  191 7,  the  then  Imperial  German  Government  an- 
nounced to  the  world  that  on  and  after  February  1st  its 
submarines  would  sink  without  warning  any  ship  that 
ventured  to  enter  a  zone  it  had  drawn  in  the  waters  of 
the  North  Atlantic. 

Gibbons  sensed  the  meaning  of  this  impudent  chal- 


xiv  FOREWORD 

lenge.  He  saw  ahead  the  overt  act  that  was  bound  to 
come  and  be  the  cause  of  the  United  States  entering  the 
war.  In  these  days  the  cry  of  "Preparedness"  was  echo- 
ing in  the  land.  England  had  paid  dearly  for  her  lack  of 
preparedness.  The  inefficient  volunteer  system  had  cost 
her  priceless  blood.  The  Chicago  Tribune  sought  the 
most  available  newspaper  man  to  send  to  London  and 
write  the  story  of  England's  costly  mistakes  for  the 
profit  of  the  American  people.  Gibbons  was  picked  for 
the  mission  and  arrangement  was  made  for  him  to  travel 
on  the  steamer  by  which  the  discredited  Von  Bernstorff 
was  to  return  to  Germany.  The  ship's  safe  conduct 
was  guaranteed.  Gibbons  did  not  like  this  feature  of 
the  trip.  He  wanted  to  ride  the  seas  in  a  ship  without 
guarantees.  His  mind  was  on  the  overt  act.  He  wanted 
to  be  on  the  job  when  it  happened.  He  cancelled  the 
passage  provided  for  him  on  the  Von  Bernstorff  ship 
and  took  passage  on  the  largest  liner  in  port,  a  ship  large 
enough  to  be  readily  seen  through  a  submarine  periscope 
and  important  enough  to  attract  the  special  attention  of 
the  German  Admiralty.  He  sailed  on  the  Laconia,  an 
eighteen  thousand  ton  Cunarder. 

On  the  night  of  February  27,  1917,  when  the  Laconia 
was  two  hundred  miles  off  the  coast  of  Ireland,  the  Gib- 
bons' "hunch"  was  fulfilled.  The  Laconia  was  torpe- 
doed and  sunk.  After  a  perilous  night  in  a  small  boat 
on  the  open  sea,  Gibbons  was  rescued  and  brought  into 
Queenstown.  He  opened  the  cables  and  flashed  to  Amer- 
ica the  most  powerful  call  to  arms  to  the  American 
people.  It  shook  the  country.  It  was  the  testimony  of  an 
eye  witness  and  it  convinced  the  Imperial  German  Gov- 
ernment, beyond  all  reasonable  doubt,  of  the  wilful  and 
malicious  murder  of  American  citizens.  The  Gibbons 
story  furnished  the  proof  of  the  overt  act  and  it  was 


FOREWORD  xv 

unofficially  admitted  at  Washington  that  it  was  the  de- 
termining factor  in  sending  America  into  the  war  one 
month  later. 

Gibbons  greeted  Pershing  on  the  latter's  landing  in 
Liverpool.  He  accompanied  the  commander  of  the 
American  Expeditionary  Forces  across  the  Channel  and 
was  at  his  side  when  he  put  foot  on  French  soil.  He  was 
one  of  the  two  American  correspondents  to  march  with 
the  first  American  troops  that  entered  the  trenches  on 
the  Western  front.  He  was  with  the  first  American 
troops  to  cross  the  German  frontier.  He  was  with  the 
artillery  battalion  that  fired  the  first  American  shell 
into  Germany. 

On  June  6th,  1918,  Gibbons  went  "over  the  top"  with 
the  first  waves  in  the  great  battle  of  the  Bois  de  Belleau. 
Gibbons  was  with  Major  John  Berry,  who,  while  leading 
the  charge,  fell  wounded.  Gibbons  saw  him  fall.  Through 
the  hail  of  lead  from  a  thousand  spitting  machine  guns, 
he  rushed  to  the  assistance  of  the  wounded  Major.  A 
German  machine  gun  bullet  shot  away  part  of  his  left 
shoulder,  but  this  did  not  stop  Gibbons.  Another  bullet 
smashed  through  his  arm,  but  still  Gibbons  kept  on.  A 
third  bullet  got  him.  It  tore  out  his  left  eye  and  made  a 
compound  fracture  of  the  skull.  For  three  hours  he  lay 
conscious  on  the  open  field  in  the  Bois  de  Belleau  with  a 
murderous  machine  gun  fire  playing  a  few  inches  over  his 
head  until  under  cover  of  darkness  he  was  able  to  crawl 
off  the  field.  For  his  gallant  conduct  he  received  a  cita- 
tation  from  General  Petain,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
French  Armies,  and  the  French  Government  awarded  him 
the  Croix  de  Guerre  with  the  Palm. 

On  July  5th,  he  was  out  of  the  hospital  and  back  at 
the  front,  covering  the  first  advance  of  the  Americans 
with  the  British  forces  before  Amiens.    On  July  18th  he 


xvi  FOREWORD 

was  the  only  correspondent  with  the  American  troops 
when  they  executed  the  history-making  drive  against  the 
German  armies  in  the  Chateau-Thierry  salient — the  be- 
ginning of  the  German  end.  He  rode  with  the  first  de- 
tachment of  American  troops  that  entered  Chateau- 
Thierry  upon  the  heels  of  the  retreating  Germans. 

Floyd  Gibbons  was  the  first  to  sound  the  alarm  of  the 
danger  of  the  German  peace  offensive.  Six  weeks  before 
the  drive  for  a  negotiated  peace  was  made  by  the  German 
Government  against  the  home  flank  in  America,  Gibbons 
told  that  it  was  on  the  way.  He  crossed  the  Atlantic 
with  his  crippled  arm  in  a  sling  and  his  head  bandaged, 
to  spend  his  convalescence  warning  American  audiences 
against  what  he  called  the  "Crooked  Kamerad  Cry." 

Gibbons  has  lived  the  war,  he  has  been  a  part  of  it. 
"And  They  Thought  We  Wouldn't  Fight"  is  the  voice 
of  our  men  in  France. 

Frank  Comerford. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  SINKING  OF  THE  Lacontd 1 7 

II  pershing's  arrival  in  Europe 43 

III  THE    LANDING    OF    THE    FIRST    AMERICAN    CON- 

TINGENT IN  FRANCE 6l 

IV  THROUGH  THE  SCHOOL  OF  WAR 78 

V    MAKING  THE  MEN  WHO  MAN  THE  GUNS    ...  96 

VI   "frontward  ho!" 117 

VII    INTO  THE  LINE — THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SHOT  IN 

THE  WAR 134 

VIII    THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SECTOR 1 58 

IX    THE  NIGHT  OUR  GUNS  CUT  LOOSE         .        .        .        .  182 

X    INTO  PICARDY  TO  MEET  THE  GERMAN  PUSH  .        .  199 

XI     UNDER  FIRE 217 

XII     BEFORE  CANTIGNY 235 

XIII  THE  RUSH  OF  THE  RAIDERS — "ZERO  AT  2  A.  M."  25 7. 

XIV  ON  LEAVE  IN  PARIS 266 

XV    CHATEAU-THIERRY  AND  THE  BOIS  DE  BELLEAU  283 

XVI    WOUNDED — HOW  IT  FEELS  TO  BE  SHOT    .        .        .  305 

XVII    "GOOD  MORNING,  NURSE" 323 

XVIII     GROANS,    LAUGHS    AND    SOBS    IN    THE    HOSPITAL  328 

XIX    "JULY  1 8TH" THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE  .        .        .  354 

XX    THE  DAWN  OF  VICTORY 376 

APPENDIX 

PERSONNEL  OF  THE  AMERICAN  EXPEDITIONARY 

FORCES  IN  FRANCE 399 


XVU 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

floyd  gibbons Frontispiece 

PAGE 
THE  ARRIVAL  IN  LONDON,  SHOWING  GENERAL  PERSHING, 
MR.    PAGE,    FIELD   MARSHAL   VISCOUNT   FRENCH,    LORD 
DERBY,  AND  ADMIRAL  SIMS 5<3 

GENERAL  PERSHING  BOWING  TO  THE  CROWD  IN  PARIS   .  50 

THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  FOOT  ON  FRENCH  SOIL  ....         66 

THE  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  FRANCE 66 

CAPT.   CHEVALIER,   OF  THE  FRENCH  ARMY,  INSTRUCTING 

AMERICAN  OFFICERS  IN  THE  USE  OF  THE  ONE  POUNDER      122 

IN  THE  COURSE  OF  ITS  PROGRESS  TO  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE 
VESLE  THIS  155  MM.  GUN  AND  OTHERS  OF  ITS  KIND 
WERE  EDUCATING  THE  BOCHE  TO  RESPECT  AMERICA. 
THE  TRACTOR  HAULS  IT  ALONG  STEADILY  AND  SLOWLY, 
LIKE  A  STEAM  ROLLER 122 

GRAVE  OF  FIRST  AMERICANS  KILLED  IN  FRANCE.  TRANS- 
LATION: HERE  LIE  THE  FIRST  SOLDIERS  OF  THE  GREAT 
REPUBLIC  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA,  FALLEN 
ON  FRENCH  SOIL  FOR  JUSTICE  AND  FOR  LIBERTY,  NO- 
VEMBER 3RD,   igi8 J70 

FIRST  OF  THE  GREAT  FRANCO-AMERICAN  COUNTER-OF- 
FENSIVE AT  CHATEAU-THIERRY.  THE  FRENCH  BABY 
TANKS,  KNOWN  AS  CHARS  D'ASSAUTS,  ENTERING  THE 
WOOD  OF  VILLERS-COTTERET,  SOUTHWEST  OF  SOISSONS      226 

YANKS  AND  POILUS  VIEWING  THE  CITY  OF  CHATEAU- 
THIERRY  WHERE  IN  THE  MIDDLE  OF  JULY  THE  YANKS 
TURNED  THE  TIDE  OF  BATTLE  AGAINST  THE  HUNS   .        .       226 

xix 


xx  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 
MARINES  MARCHING  DOWN  THE  AVENUE  PRESIDENT  WIL- 
SON ON  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  PARIS  ....       274 

BRIDGE  CROSSING  MARNE  RIVER  IN  CHATEAU-THIERRY 
DESTROYED  BY  GERMANS  IN  THEIR  RETREAT  FROM 
TOWN 274 

HELMET    WORN    BY    FLOYD    GIBBONS    WHEN    WOUNDED, 

SHOWING   DAMAGE   CAUSED   BY   SHRAPNEL  .        .        .       314 

THE  NEWS  FROM  THE  STATES 346 

SMILING  WOUNDED  AMERICAN  SOLDIERS 346 


(Photographs  Copyright  by  Committee  on  Public  Information.) 


"AND  THEY  THOUGHT  WE 
WOULDN'T  FIGHT" 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   SINKING    OF    THE   LdCOflia 

Between  America  and  the  firing  line,  there  are  three 
thousand  miles  of  submarine  infested  water.  Every  Amer- 
ican soldier,  before  encountering  the  dangers  of  the  bat- 
tle-front, must  first  overcome  the  dangers  of  the  deep. 

Geographically,  America  is  almost  four  thousand  miles 
from  the  war  zone,  but  in  fact  every  American  soldier 
bound  for  France  entered  the  war  zone  one  hour  out  of 
New  York  harbour.  Germany  made  an  Ally  out  of  the 
dark  depths  of  the  Atlantic. 

That  three-thousand-mile  passage  represented  greater 
possibilities  for  the  destruction  of  the  United  States  over- 
seas forces  than  any  strategical  operation  that  Germany's 
able  military  leaders  could  direct  in  the  field. 

Germany  made  use  of  that  three  thousand  miles  of 
water,  just  as  she  developed  the  use  of  barbed  wire  en- 
tanglements along  the  front.  Infantry  advancing  across 
No  Man's  Land  were  held  helpless  before  the  enemy's 
fire  by  barbed  wire  entanglements.  Germany,  with  her 
submarine  policy  of  ruthlessness,  changed  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  into  another  No  Man's  Land  across  which  every 
American  soldier  had  to  pass  at  the  mercy  of  the  enemy 
before  he  could  arrive  at  the  actual  battle-front. 

This  was  the  peril  of  the  troop  ship.  This  was  the 
tremendous  advantage  which  the  enemy  held  over  our 
armies  even  before  they  reached  the  field.  This  was  the 
unprecedented  condition  which   the  United   States  and 

17 


18 "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Allied  navies  had  to  cope  with  in  the  great  undertaking 
of  transporting  our  forces  overseas. 

Any  one  who  has  crossed  the  ocean,  even  in  the  normal 
times  before  shark-like  Kultur  skulked  beneath  the  water, 
has  experienced  the  feeling  of  human  helplessness  that 
comes  in  mid-ocean  when  one  considers  the  compara- 
tive frailty  of  such  man-made  devices  as  even  the  most 
modern  turbine  liners,  with  the  enormous  power  of  the 
wilderness  of  water  over  which  one  sails. 

In  such  times  one  realises  that  safety  rests,  first  upon 
the  kindliness  of  the  elements;  secondly,  upon  the  skill 
and  watchfulness  of  those  directing  the  voyage,  and 
thirdly,  upon  the  dependability  of  such  human-made 
things  as  engines,  propellers,  steel  plates,  bolts  and  rivets. 

But  add  to  the  possibilities  of  a  failure  or  a  misalli- 
ance of  any  or  all  of  the  above  functions,  the  greater 
danger  of  a  diabolical  human,  yet  inhuman,  interference, 
directed  against  the  seafarer  with  the  purpose  and  inten- 
tion of  his  destruction.  This  last  represents  the  greatest 
odds  against  those  who  go  to  sea  during  the  years  of  the 
great  war. 

A  sinking  at  sea  is  a  nightmare.  I  have  been  through 
one.  I  have  been  on  a  ship  torpedoed  in  mid-ocean.  I 
have  stood  on  the  slanting  decks  of  a  doomed  liner;  I 
have  listened  to  the  lowering  of  the  life-boats,  heard  the 
hiss  of  escaping  steam  and  the  roar  of  ascending  rockets 
as  they  tore  lurid  rents  in  the  black  sky  and  cast  their 
red  glare  o'er  the  roaring  sea. 

I  have  spent  a  night  in  an  open  boat  on  the  tossing 
swells.  I  have  been  through,  in  reality,  the  mad  dream 
of  drifting  and  darkness  and  bailing  and  pulling  on  the 
oars  and  straining  aching  eyes  toward  an  empty,  mean- 
ingless horizon  in  search  of  help.  I  shall  try  to  tell  you 
how  it  feels. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  19 

I  had  been  assigned  by  The  Chicago  Tribune  to  go  to 
London  as  their  correspondent.  Almost  the  same  day  I 
received  that  assignment,  the  "Imperial"  Government  of 
Germany  had  invoked  its  ruthless  submarine  policy,  had 
drawn  a  blockade  zone  about  the  waters  of  the  British 
Isles  and  the  coasts  of  France,  and  had  announced  to 
the  world  that  its  U-boats  would  sink  without  warning 
any  ship,  of  any  kind,  under  any  flag,  that  tried  to  sail 
the  waters  that  Germany  declared  prohibitory. 

In  consideration  of  my  personal  safety  and,  possibly, 
of  my  future  usefulness,  the  Tribune  was  desirous  of 
arranging  for  me  a  safe  passage  across  the  Atlantic. 
Such  an  opportunity  presented  itself  in  the  ordered  re- 
turn of  the  disgraced  and  discredited  German  Ambassa- 
dor to  the  United  States,  Count  von  Bernstorff. 

Under  the  rules  of  International  courtesy,  a  ship  had 
been  provided  for  the  use  of  von  Bernstorff  and  his  dip- 
lomatic staff.  That  ship  was  to  sail  under  absolute  guar- 
antees of  safe  conduct  from  all  of  the  nations  at  war  with 
Germany  and,  of  course,  it  would  also  have  been  safe 
from  attack  by  German  submarines.  That  ship  was  the 
Frederick  VIII.  At  considerable  expense  the  Tribune 
managed  to  obtain  for  me  a  cabin  passage  on  that  ship. 

I  can't  say  that  I  was  over-impressed  with  the  pros- 
pect of  travel  in  such  company.  I  disliked  the  thought 
that  I,  an  American  citizen,  with  rights  as  such  to  sail 
the  sea,  should  have  to  resort  to  subterfuge  and  scheming 
to  enjoy  those  rights.  There  arose  in  me  a  feeling  of 
challenge  against  Germany's  order  which  forbade  Amer- 
ican ships  to  sail  the  ocean.  I  cancelled  my  sailing  on 
the  Frederick  I  'III. 

In  New  York,  I  sought  passage  on  the  first  American 
ship  sailing  for  England.  I  made  the  rounds  of  the 
steamship  offices  and  learned  that  the  Cunard  liner  La- 


20  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

conia  was  the  first  available  boat  and  was  about  to  sail. 
She  carried  a  large  cargo  of  munitions  and  other  ma- 
terials of  war.  I  booked  passage  aboard  her.  It  was 
on  Saturday,  February  17th,  1917,  that  we  steamed  away 
from  the  dock  at  New  York  and  moved  slowly  down  the 
East  River.  We  were  bound  for  Liverpool,  England. 
My  cabin  accommodations  were  good.  The  Laconia  was 
listed  at  18,000  tons  and  was  one  of  the  largest  Cunard- 
ers  in  the  Atlantic  service.  The  next  morning  we  were 
out  of  sight  of  land. 

Sailors  were  stationed  along  the  decks  of  the  ship 
and  in  the  look-outs  at  the  mast  heads.  They  main- 
tained a  watch  over  the  surface  of  the  sea  in  all  direc- 
tions. On  the  stern  of  the  ship,  there  was  mounted  a 
six-inch  cannon  and  a  crew  of  gunners  stood  by  it  night 
and  day. 

Submarines  had  been  recently  reported  in  the  waters 
through  which  we  were  sailing,  but  we  saw  none  of  them 
and  apparently  they  saw  none  of  us.  They  had  sunk 
many  ships,  but  all  of  the  sinkings  had  been  in  the  day 
time.  Consequently,  there  was  a  feeling  of  greater 
safety  at  night.  The  Laconia  sailed  on  a  constantly  zig- 
zagging course.  All  of  our  life-boats  were  swinging  out 
over  the  side  of  the  ship,  so  that  if  we  were  hit  they 
could  be  lowered  in  a  hurry.  Every  other  day  the  pas- 
sengers and  the  crew  would  be  called  up  on  the  decks 
to  stand  by  the  life-boats  that  had  been  assigned  to  them. 

The  officers  of  the  ship  instructed  us  in  the  life-boat 
drill.  They  showed  us  how  to  strap  the  life-preservers 
about  our  bodies;  they  showed  us  how  to  seat  ourselves 
in  the  life-boats;  they  showed  us  a  small  keg  of  water 
and  some  tin  cans  of  biscuits,  a  lantern  and  some  flares 
that  were  stored  in  the  boat,  and  so  we  sailed  along  day 
after  day  without  meeting  any  danger.     At  night,  all  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  21 


the  lights  were  put  out  and  the  ship  slipped  along  through 
the  darkness. 

On  Sunday,  after  we  had  been  sailing  for  eight  days, 
we  entered  the  zone  that  had  been  prohibited  by  the 
Kaiser.  We  sailed  into  it  full  steam  ahead  and  nothing 
happened.  That  day  was  February  the  twenty-fifth.  In 
the  afternoon,  I  was  seated  in  the  lounge  with  two 
friends.  One  was  an  American  whose  name  was  Kirby ; 
the  other  was  a  Canadian  and  his  name  was  Dugan.  The 
latter  was  an  aviator  in  the  British  army.  In  fights  with 
German  aeroplanes  high  over  the  Western  Front  he  had 
been  wounded  and  brought  down  twice  and  the  army 
had  sent  him  to  his  home  in  Canada  to  get  well.  He 
was  returning  once  more  to  the  battle  front  "to  stop  an- 
other bullet,"  as  he  said. 

As  we  tallked,  I  passed  around  my  cigarette  case  and 
Dugan  held  a  lighted  match  while  the  three  of  us  lighted 
our  cigarettes  from  it.  As  Dugan  blew  out  the  match 
and  placed  the  burnt  end  in  an  ash  tray,  he  laughed  and 
said, 

"They  say  it  is  bad  luck  to  light  three  cigarettes  with 
the  same  match,  but  I  think  it  is  good  luck  for  me.  I 
used  to  do  it  frequently  with  my  flying  partners  in  France 
and  four  of  them  have  been  killed,  but  I  am  still  alive." 

"That  makes  it  all  right  for  you,"  said  Kirby,  "but  it 
makes  it  look  bad  for  Gibbons  and  myself.  But  nothing 
is  going  to  happen.     I  don't  believe  in  superstitions." 

That  night  after  dinner  Dugan  and  I  took  a  brisk  walk 
around  the  darkened  promenade  deck  of  the  Laconia. 
The  night  was  very  dark,  a  stiff  wind  was  blowing  and 
the  Laconia  was  rolling  slightly  in  the  trough  of  the 
waves.  Wet  from  spray,  we  returned  within  and  in  one 
of  the  corridors  met  the  Captain  of  the  ship.     I  told  him 


22         "AND  THEY  THOUGHT __ 

that  I  would  like  very  much  to  have  a  look  at  his  chart 
and  learn  our  exact  location  on  the  ocean. 

He  looked  at  me  and  laughed  because  that  was  a  very- 
secret  matter.     But  he  replied  : 

"Oh,  you  would,  would  you?"  and  his  voice  carried 
that  particular  British  intonation  that  seemed  to  say, 
"Well  it  is  jolly  well  none  of  your  business." 

Then  I  asked  him  when  he  thought  we  would  land  in 
Liverpool. 

"I  really  don't  know,"  said  the  ship's  commander,  and 
then,  with  a  wink,  he  added,  "but  my  steward  told  me 
that  we  would  get  in  Tuesday  evening." 

Kirby  and  I  went  to  the  smoke  room  on  the  boat  deck 
well  to  the  stern  of  the  ship.  We  joined  a  circle  of 
Britishers  who  were  seated  in  front  of  a  coal  fire  in  an 
open  hearth.  Nearly  every  one  in  the  lighted  smoke 
room  was  playing  cards,  so  that  the  conversation  was 
practically  confined  to  the  mentioning  of  bids  and  the  or- 
ders of  drinks  from  the  stewards. 

"What  do  you  think  are  our  chances  of  being  torpe- 
doed?" was  the  question  I  put  before  the  circle  in  front 
of  the  fireplace. 

The  deliberative  Mr.  Henry  Chetham,  a  London  so- 
licitor, was  the  first  to  answer. 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  "I  should  say  about  four  thou- 
sand to  one." 

Lucien  J.  Jerome  of  the  British  Diplomatic  Service, 
returning  with  an  Ecuadorian  valet  from  South  America, 
advanced  his  opinion. 

I  was  much  impressed  with  his  opinion  because  the 
speaker  himself  had  impressed  me  deeply.  He  was  the 
best  monocle  juggler  I  had  ever  met.  In  his  right  eye 
he  carried  a  monocle  without  a  rim  and  without  a  ribbon 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  23 

or  thread  to  save  it,  should  it  ever  have  fallen  from  his 
eye. 

Repeatedly  during  the  trip,  I  had  seen  Mr.  Je- 
rome standing  on  the  hurrideck  of  the  Laconia  fac- 
ing the  wind  but  holding  the  glass  disk  in  his  eye  with  a 
muscular  grip  that  must  have  been  vise-like.  I  had  even 
followed  him  around  the  deck  several  times  in  a  desire 
to  be  present  when  the  monocle  blew  out,  but  the  British 
diplomatist  never  for  once  lost  his  grip  on  it.  I  had 
come  to  the  opinion  that  the  piece  of  glass  was  fixed  to 
his  eye  and  that  he  slept  with  it.  After  the  fashion  of  the 
British  Diplomatic  Service,  he  expressed  his  opinion  most 
affirmatively. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said  with  reference  to  Mr.  Chetham's 
estimate.  "Utter  nonsense.  Considering  the  zone  that 
we  are  in  and  the  class  of  the  ship,  I  should  put  the 
chances  down  at  two  hundred  and  fifty  to  one  that  we 
don't  meet  a  'sub.'  " 

At  that  minute  the  torpedo  hit  us. 

Have  you  ever  stood  on  the  deck  of  a  ferry  boat  as  it 
arrived  in  the  slip?  And  have  you  ever  experienced  the 
slight  sideward  shove  when  the  boat  rubs  against  the  pil- 
ing and  comes  to  a  stop?  That  was  the  unmistakable 
lurch  we  felt,  but  no  one  expects  to  run  into  pilings  in 
mid-ocean,  so  every  one  knew  what  it  was. 

At  the  same  time,  there  came  a  muffled  noise — not  ex- 
tremely loud  nor  yet  very  sharp — just  a  noise  like  the 
slamming  of  some  large  oaken  door  a  good  distance 
away.  Realising  that  we  had  been  torpedoed,  my  imagi- 
nation was  rather  disappointed  at  the  slightness  of  the 
shock  and  the  meekness  of  the  report.  One  or  two  chairs 
tipped  over,  a  few  glasses  crashed  from  table  to  floor 
and  in  an  instant  every  man  in  the  room  was  on  his  feet. 

"We're  hit,"  shouted  Mr.  Chetham. 


24  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"That's  what  we've  been  waiting  for,"  said  Mr.  Je- 
rome. 

"What  a  lousy  torpedo !"  said  Mr.  Kirby.  "It  must 
have  been  a  fizzer." 

I  looked  at  my  watch;  it  was  10:30. 

Fivj  sharp  blasts  sounded  on  the  Laconia's  whistle. 
Since  that  night,  I  have  often  marvelled  at  the  quick  co- 
ordination of  mind  and  hand  that  belonged  to  the  man 
on  the  bridge  who  pulled  that  whistle  rope.  Those  five 
blasts  constituted  the  signal  to  abandon  the  ship.  Every 
one  recognised  them. 

We  walked  hurriedly  down  the  corridor  leading  from 
the  smoke  room  in  the  stern  to  the  lounge  which  was 
amidships.  We  moved  fast  but  there  was  no  crowding 
and  no  panic.  Passing  the  open  door  of  the  gymna- 
sium, I  became  aware  of  the  list  of  the  vessel.  The  floor 
of  the  gymnasium  slanted  down  on  the  starboard  side 
and  a  medicine  ball  and  dozens  of  dumb  bells  and  Indian 
clubs  were  rolling  in  that  direction. 

We  entered  the  lounge — a  large  drawing  room  fur- 
nished with  green  upholstered  chairs  and  divans  and 
small  tables  on  which  the  after-dinner  liqueur  glasses 
still  rested.  In  one  corner  was  a  grand  piano  with  the 
top  elevated.  In  the  centre  of  the  slanting  floor  of  the 
saloon  was  a  cabinet  victrola  and  from  its  mahogany 
bowels  there  poured  the  last  and  dying  strains  of  "Poor 
Butterfly." 

The  women  and  several  men  who  had  been  in  the 
lounge  were  hurriedly  leaving  by  the  forward  door  as 
we  entered.  We  followed  them  through.  The  twin 
winding  stairs  leading  below  decks  by  the  forward  hatch 
were  dark  and  I  brought  into  play  a  pocket  flashlight 
shaped  like  a  fountain  pen.     I  had  purchased  it  before 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  25 

sailing  in  view  of  such  an  emergency  and  I  had  always 
carried  it  fastened  with  a  clip  in  an  upper  vest  pocket. 

My  stateroom  was  B  19  on  the  promenade  deck,  one 
deck  below  the  deck  on  which  was  located  the  smoke 
room,  the  lounge  and  the  life-boats.  The  corridor  was 
dimly  lighted  and  the  floor  had  a  more  perceptible  slant 
as  I  darted  into  my  stateroom,  which  was  on  the  star- 
board and  sinking  side  of  the  ship.  I  hurriedly  put  on  a 
light  non-sink  garment  constructed  like  a  vest,  which  I 
had  come  provided  with,  and  then  donned  an  overcoat. 

Responding  to  the  list  of  the  ship,  the  wardrobe  door 
swung  open  and  crashed  against  the  wall.  My  type- 
writer slid  off  the  dressing  table  and  a  shower  of  toilet 
articles  pitched  from  their  places  on  the  washstand.  I 
grabbed  the  ship's  life-preserver  in  my  left  hand  and, 
with  the  flashlight  in  my  right  hand,  started  up  the  hatch- 
way to  the  upper  deck. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  boat  deck  hatchway,  the  rays  of 
my  flashlight  revealed  the  chief  steward  opening  the 
door  of  a  switch  closet  in  the  panel  wall.  He  pushed  on 
a  number  of  switches  and  instantly  the  decks  of  the  La- 
conia  became  bright.  From  sudden  darkness,  the  ex- 
terior of  the  ship  burst  into  a  blaze  of  light  and  it  was 
that  illumination  that  saved  many  lives. 

The  La-conia's  engines  and  dynamos  had  not  yet  been 
damaged.  The  torpedo  had  hit  us  well  astern  on  the 
starboard  side  and  the  bulkheads  seemed  to  be  holding 
back  from  the  engine  room  the  flood  of  water  that 
rushed  in  through  the  gaping  hole  in  the  ship's  side.  I 
proceeded  down  the  boat  deck  to  my  station  opposite 
boat  No.  10.  I  looked  over  the  side  and  down  upon  the 
water  sixty  feet  below. 

The  sudden  flashing  of  the  lights  on  the  upper  deck 


26  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

made  the  dark  seething  waters  seem  blacker  and  angrier. 
They  rose  and  fell  in  troubled  swells. 

Steam  began  to  hiss  from  some  of  the  pipes  leading 
up  from  the  engine  well.  It  seemed  like  a  dying  groan 
from  the  very  vitals  of  the  stricken  ship.  Clouds  of 
white  and  black  smoke  rolled  up  from  the  giant  grey 
funnels  that  towered  above  us. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  roaring  swish  as  a  rocket  soared 
upward  from  the  Captain's  bridge,  leaving  a  comet's 
tail  of  fire.  I  watched  it  as  it  described  a  graceful  arc 
and  then  with  an  audible  pop  it  burst  in  a  flare  of  bril- 
liant colour.  Its  ascent  had  torn  a  lurid  rent  in  the  black 
sky  and  had  cast  a  red  glare  over  the  roaring  sea. 

Already  boat  No.  10  was  loading  up  and  men  and  boys 
were  busy  with  the  ropes.  I  started  to  help  near  a  davit 
that  seemed  to  be  giving  trouble  but  was  sternly  ordered 
to  get  out  of  the  way  and  to  get  into  the  boat. 

Other  passengers  and  members  of  the  crew  and  offi- 
cers of  the  ship  were  rushing  to  and  fro  along  the  deck 
strapping  their  life-preservers  to  them  as  they  rushed. 
There  was  some  shouting  of  orders  but  little  or  no  con- 
fusion. One  woman,  a  blonde  French  actress,  became 
hysterical  on  the  deck4  but  two  men  lifted  her  bodily  off 
her  feet  and  placed  her  in  the  life-boat. 

We  were  on  the  port  side  of  the  ship,  the  higher  side. 
To  reach  the  boats,  we  had  to  climb  up  the  slanting  deck 
to  the  edge  of  the  ship. 

On  the  starboard  side,  it  was  different.  On  that  side, 
the  decks  slanted  down  toward  the  water.  The  ship 
careened  in  that  direction  and  the  life-boats  suspended 
from  the  davits  swung  clear  of  the  ship's  side. 

The  list  of  the  ship  increased.  On  the  port  side,  we 
looked  down  the  slanting  side  of  the  ship  and  noticed 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  27 

that  her  water  line  on  that  side  was  a  number  of  feet 
above  the  waves.  The  slant  was  so  pronounced  that  the 
life-boats,  instead  of  swinging  clear  from  the  davits, 
rested  against  the  side  of  the  ship.  From  my  position 
in  the  life-boat  I  could  see  that  we  were  going  to  have 
difficulty  in  the  descent  to  the  water. 

"Lower  away,"  some  one  gave  the  order  and  we  started 
downward  with  a  jerk  toward  the  seemingly  hungry, 
rising  and  falling  swells.  Then  we  stopped  with  another 
jerk  and  remained  suspended  in  mid-air  while  the  men 
at  the  bow  and  the  stern  swore  and  tusseled  with  the 
ropes. 

The  stern  of  the  boat  was  down;  the  bow  up,  leaving 
us  at  an  angle  of  about  forty-five  degrees.  We  clung 
to  the  seats  to  save  ourselves  from  falling  out. 

"Wrho's  got  a  knife?  A  knife!  A  knife!"  shouted 
a  fireman  in  the  bow.  He  was  bare  to  the  waist  and 
perspiration  stood  out  in  drops  on  his  face  and  chest  and 
made  streaks  through  the  coal  dust  with  which  his  skin 
was  grimed. 

"Great  Gawd!  Give  him  a  knife,"  bawled  a  half- 
dressed  jibbering  negro  stoker  who  wrung  his  hands  in 
the  stern. 

A  hatchet  was  thrust  into  my  hands  and  I  forwarded  it 
to  the  bow.  There  was  a  flash  of  sparks  as  it  was 
brought  down  with  a  clang  on  the  holding  pulley.  One 
strand  of  the  rope  parted. 

Down  plunged  the  bow  of  the  boat  too  quickly  for  the 
men  in  the  stern.  We  came  to  a  jerky  stop,  this  time 
with  the  stern  in  the  air  and  the  bow  down,  the  dangerous 
angle  reversed. 

One  man  in  the  stern  let  the  rope  race  through  his  blis- 
tered ringers.    With  hands  burnt  to  the  quick,  he  grabbed 


28  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  rope  and  stopped  the  precipitous  descent  just  in  time 
to  bring  the  stern  level  with  the  bow. 

Then  bow  and  stern  tried  to  lower  away  together.  The 
slant  of  the  ship's  side  had  increased,  so  that  our  boat 
instead  of  sliding  down  it  like  a  toboggan  was  held  up 
on  one  side  when  the  taffrail  caught  on  one  of  the  con- 
denser exhaust  pipes  projecting  slightly  from  the  ship's 
side. 

Thus  the  starboard  side  of  the  life-boat  stuck  fast  and 
high  while  the  port  side  dropped  down  and  once  more 
we  found  ourselves  clinging  on  at  a  new  angle  and  look- 
ing straight  down  into  the  water. 

A  hand  slipped  into  mine  and  a  voice  sounded  huskily 
close  to  my  ear.  It  was  the  little  old  Jewish  travelling 
man  who  was  disliked  in  the  smoke  room  because  he 
used  to  speak  too  certainly  of  things  about  which  he 
was  uncertain.  His  slightly  Teutonic  dialect  had  made 
him  as  popular  as  the  smallpox  with  the  British  passen- 
gers. 

"My  poy,  I  can't  see  nutting,"  he  said.  "My  glasses 
slipped  and  I  am  falling.    Hold  me,  please." 

I  managed  to  reach  out  and  join  hands  with  another 
man  on  the  other  side  of  the  old  man  and  together  we 
held  him  in.  He  hung  heavily  over  our  arms,  gro- 
tesquely grasping  all  he  had  saved  from  his  stateroom — a 
gold-headed  cane  and  an  extra  hat. 

Many  feet  and  hands  pushed  the  boat  from  the  side 
of  the  ship  and  we  renewed  our  sagging,  scraping,  slid- 
ing, jerking  descent.  It  ended  as  the  bottom  of  the  life- 
boat smacked  squarely  on  the  pillowy  top  of  a  rising 
swell.    It  felt  more  solid  than  mid-air  at  least. 

But  we  were  far  from  being  off.  The  pulleys  twice 
stuck  in  their  fastings,  bow  and  stern,  and  the  one  axe 
was  passed  forward  and  back   (and  with  it  my  flash- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  29 

light)  as  the  entangling  mesh  of  ropes  that  held  us  to  the 
sinking  Laconia  was  cut  away. 

Some  shout  from  that  confusion  of  sound  caused  me 
to  look  up.  I  believe  I  really  did  so  in  the  fear  that 
one  of  the  nearby  boats  was  being  lowered  upon  us. 

Tin  funnels  enamelled  white  and  containing  clusters 
of  electric  bulbs  hung  over  the  side  from  one  of  the  upper 
decks.  I  looked  up  into  the  cone  of  one  of  these  lights 
and  a  bulky  object  shot  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness 
into  the  scope  of  the  electric   rays. 

It  was  a  man.  His  arms  were  bent  up  at  the  elbows ; 
his  legs  at  the  knees.  He  was  jumping,  with  the  inten- 
tion, I  feared,  of  landing  in  our  boat,  and  I  prepared  to 
avoid  the  impact.     But  he  had  judged  his  distance  well. 

He  plunged  beyond  us  and  into  the  water  three  feet 
from  the  edge  of  the  boat.  He  sank  from  sight,  leav- 
ing a  white  patch  of  bubbles  and  foam  on  the  black 
water.    He  bobbed  to  the  surface  almost  immediately. 

"It's  Dugan,"  shouted  a  man  next  to  me. 

I  flashed  a  light  on  the  ruddy,  smiling  face  and  water 
plastered  hair  of  the  little  Canadian  aviator,  our  fellow 
saloon  passenger.  We  pulled  him  over  the  side  and  into 
the  boat.    He  spluttered  out  a  mouthful  of  water. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  to  that  lighting  three 
matches  off  the  same  match,"  he  said.  "I  was  trying  to 
loosen  the  bow  rope  in  this  boat.  I  loosened  it  and  then 
got  tangled  up  in  it.  When  the  boat  descended,  I  was 
jerked  up  back  on  the  deck.  Then  I  jumped  for  it.  Holy 
Moses,  but  this  water  is  cold." 

As  we  pulled  away  from  the  side  of  the  ship,  its  re- 
ceding terraces  of  glowing  port  holes  and  deck  lights 
towered  above  us.    The  ship  was  slowly  turning  over. 

We  were  directly  opposite  the  engine  room  section  of 
the  Laconia.    There  was  a  tangle  of  oars,  spars  and  rig- 


3o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ging  on  the  seats  in  our  boat,  and  considerable  confusion 
resulted  before  we  could  manage  to  place  in  operation 
some  of  the  big  oars  on  either  side. 

The  jibber ing,  bullet-headed  negro  was  pulling  a 
sweep  directly  behind  me  and  I  turned  to  quiet  him  as  his 
frantic  reaches  with  the  oar  were  jabbing  me  in  the  back. 

In  the  dull  light  from  the  upper  decks,  I  looked  into 
his  slanting  face — his  eyes  all  whites  and  his  lips  moving 
convulsively.  He  shivered  with  fright,  but  in  addition 
to  that  he  was  freezing  in  the  thin  cotton  shirt  that  com- 
posed his  entire  upper  covering.  He  worked  feverishly 
at  the  oar  to  warm  himself. 

"Get  away  from  her.  My  Gawd,  get  away  from  her," 
he  kept  repeating.  "When  the  water  hits  her  hot  boilers 
she'll  blow  up  the  whole  ocean  and  there's  just  tons 
and  tons  of  shrapnel  in  her  hold." 

His  excitement  spread  to  other  members  of  the  crew 
in  our  boat.  The  ship's  baker,  designated  by  his  pantry 
headgear  of  white  linen,  became  a  competing  alarmist 
and  a  white  fireman,  whose  blasphemy  was  nothing  short 
of  profound,  added  to  the  confusion  by  cursing  every 
one. 

It  was  the  tension  of  the  minute — it  was  the  give  way 
of  overwrought  nerves — it  was  bedlam  and  nightmare. 

I  sought  to  establish  some  authority  in  our  boat  which 
was  about  to  break  out  into  full  mutiny.  I  made  my  way 
to  the  stern.  There,  huddled  up  in  a  great  overcoat  and 
almost  muffled  in  a  ship's  life-preserver,  I  came  upon  an 
old  white-haired  man  and  I  remembered  him. 

He  was  a  sea-captain  of  the  old  sailing  days.  He  had 
been  a  second  cabin  passenger  with  whom  I  had  talked 
before.  Earlier  in  the  year  he  had  sailed  out  of  Nova 
Scotia  with  a  cargo  of  codfish.  His  schooner,  the  Se- 
cret, had  broken  in  two  in  mid-ocean,  but  he  and  his 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  31 

crew  had  been  picked  up  by  a  tramp  and  taken  back  to 
New  York. 

From  there  he  had  sailed  on  another  ship  bound  for 
Europe,  but  this  ship,  a  Holland-American  Liner,  the 
Ryndam,  had  never  reached  the  other  side.  In  mid- 
Atlantic  her  captain  had  lost  courage  over  the  U-boat 
threats.  He  had  turned  the  ship  about  and  returned  to 
America.  Thus,  the  Laconia  represented  the  third  un- 
successful attempt  of  this  grey-haired  mariner  to  get 
back  to  his  home  in  England.  His  name  was  Captain 
Dear. 

"Our  boat's  rudder  is  gone,  but  we  can  stear  with  an 
oar,"  he  said,  in  a  weak-quavering  voice — the  thin  high- 
pitched  treble  of  age.  "I  will  take  charge,  if  you  want 
me  to,  but  my  voice  is  gone.  I  can  tell  you  what  to  do, 
but  you  will  have  to  shout  the  orders.  They  won't  listen 
to  me." 

There  was  only  one  way  to  get  the  attention  of  the 
crew,  and  that  was  by  an  overpowering  blast  of  pro- 
fanity. I  called  to  my  assistance  every  ear-splitting, 
soul-sizzling  oath  that  I  could  think  of. 

I  recited  the  lurid  litany  of  the  army  mule  skinner 
to  his  gentle  charges  and  embellished  it  with  excerpts 
from  the  remarks  of  a  Chicago  taxi  chauffeur  while  he 
changed  tires  on  the  road  with  the  temperature  ten 
below. 

It  proved  to  be  an  effective  combination,  this  brim- 
stoned  oration  of  mine,  because  it  was  rewarded  by  si- 
lence. 

"Is  there  a  ship's  officer  in  this  boat?"  I  shouted. 
There  was  no  answer. 

"Is  there  a  sailor  or  a  seaman  on  board  ?"  I  inquired, 
and  again  there  was  silence  from  our  group  of  passen- 
gers, firemen,  stokers  and  deck  swabs. 


32  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


They  appeared  to  be  listening  to  me  and  I  wished  to 
keep  my  hold  on  them.  I  racked  my  mind  for  some 
other  query  to  make  or  some  order  to  direct.  Before  the 
spell  was  broken  I  found  one. 

"We  will  now  find  out  how  many  of  us  there  are  in 
this  boat,"  I  announced  in  the  best  tones  of  authority 
that  I  could  assume.  "The  first  man  in  the  bow  will 
count  one  and  the  next  man  to  him  will  count  two.  We 
will  count  from  the  bow  back  to  the  stern,  each  man 
taking  a  number.     Begin." 

"One,"  came  the  quick  response  from  a  passenger  who 
happened  to  be  the  first  man  in  the  bow.  The  enumera- 
tion continued  sharply  toward  the  stern.  I  spoke  the  last 
number. 

"There  are  twenty-three  of  us  here,"  I  repeated, 
"there's  not  a  ship's  officer  or  seaman  among  us,  but  we 
are  extremely  fortunate  to  have  with  us  an  old  sea-cap- 
tain who  has  consented  to  take  charge  of  the  boat  and 
save  our  lives.  His  voice  is  weak,  but  I  will  repeat  the 
orders  for  him,  so  that  all  of  you  can  hear.  Are  you 
ready  to  obey  his  orders?" 

There  was  an  almost  unanimous  acknowledgment  of 
assent  and  order  was  restored. 

"The  first  thing  to  be  done,"  I  announced  upon  Cap- 
tain Dear's  instructions,  "is  to  get  the  same  number  of 
oars  pulling  on  each  side  of  the  boat;  to  seat  ourselves 
so  as  to  keep  on  an  even  keel  and  then  to  keep  the  boat's 
head  up  into  the  wind  so  that  we  won't  be  swamped  by 
the  waves." 

With  some  little  difficulty,  this  rearrangement  was  ac- 
complished and  then  we  rested  on  our  oars  with  all  eyes 
turned  on  the  still  lighted  Laconia.  The  torpedo  had  hit 
at   about    10:30   P.    M.   according   to   our   ship's  time. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  33 


Though  listing  far  over  on  one  side,  the  Laconia  was 
still  afloat. 

It  must  have  been  twenty  minutes  after  that  first  shot 
that  we  heard  another  dull  thud,  which  was  accompanied 
by  a  noticeable  drop  in  the  hulk.  The  German  submarine 
had  despatched  a  second  torpedo  through  the  engine 
room  and  the  boat's  vitals  from  a  distance  of  two  hun- 
dred yards. 

We  watched  silently  during  the  next  minute  as  the 
tiers  of  lights  dimmed  slowly  from  white  to  yellow,  then 
to  red  and  then  nothing  was  left  but  the  murky  mourning 
of  the  night  which  hung  over  all  like  a  pall. 

A  mean,  cheese-coloured  crescent  of  a  moon  revealed 
one  horn  above  a  rag  bundle  of  clouds  low  in  the  dis- 
tance. A  rim  of  blackness  settled  around  our  little 
world,  relieved  only  by  a  few  leering  stars  in  the  zenith, 
and,  where  the  Laconia's  lights  had  shown,  there  re- 
mained only  the  dim  outlines  of  a  blacker  hulk  stand- 
ing out  above  the  water  like  a  jagged  headland,  silhou- 
etted against  the  overcast  sky. 

The  ship  sank  rapidly  at  the  stern  until  at  last  its  nose 
rose  out  of  the  water,  and  stood  straight  up  in  the  air. 
Then  it  slid  silently  down  and  out  of  sight  like  a  piece  of 
scenery  in  a  panorama  spectacle. 

Boat  No.  3  stood  closest  to  the  place  where  the  ship 
had  gone  down.  As  a  result  of  the  after  suction,  the 
small  life-boat  rocked  about  in  a  perilous  sea  of  clashing 
spars  and  wreckage. 

As  the  boat's  crew  steadied  its  head  into  the  wind,  a 
black  hulk,  glistening  wet  and  standing  about  eight  feet 
above  the  surface  of  the  water,  approached  slowly.  It 
came  to  a  stop  opposite  the  boat  and  not  ten  feet  from 
the  side  of  it.    It  was  the  submarine. 

"Vot  ship  vass  dot?"  were  the  first  words  of  throaty 


34  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

guttural  English  that  came  from  a  figure  which  projected 
from  the  conning  tower. 

"The  Laconia,"  answered  the  Chief  Steward  Ballyn, 
who  commanded  the  life-boat. 

"Vot?" 

"The  Laconia,  Cunard  Line,"  responded  the  steward. 

"Vot  did  she  weigh?"  was  the  next  question  from  the 
submarine. 

"Eighteen  thousand  tons." 

"Any  passengers?" 

"Seventy-three,"  replied  Ballyn,  "many  of  them 
women  and  children — some  of  them  in  this  boat.  She 
had  over  two  hundred  in  the  crew." 

"Did  she  carry  cargo?" 

"Yes." 

"Iss  der  Captain  in  dot  boat?'" 

"No,"  Ballyn  answered. 

"Well,  I  guess  you'll  be  all  right.  A  patrol  will  pick 
you  up  some  time  soon."  Without  further  sound  save 
for  the  almost  silent  fixing  of  the  conning  tower  lid,  the 
submarine  moved  off. 

"I  thought  it  best  to  make  my  answers  sharp  and  sat- 
isfactory, sir,"  said  Ballyn,  when  he  repeated  the  conver- 
sation to  me  word  for  word.  "I  was  thinking  of  the 
women  and  children  in  the  boat.  I  feared  every  minute 
that  somebody  in  our  boat  might  make  a  hostile  move, 
fire  a  revolver,  or  throw  something  at  the  submarine.  I 
feared  the  consequence  of  such  an  act." 

There  was  no  assurance  of  an  early  pickup  so  we  made 
preparations  for  a  siege  with  the  elements.  The  weather 
was  a  great  factor.  That  black  rim  of  clouds  looked 
ominous.  There  was  a  good  promise  of  rain.  February 
has  a  reputation  for  nasty  weather  in  the  north  Atlantic. 
The  wind  was  cold  and  seemed  to  be  rising.     Our  boat 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  35 

bobbed  about  like  a  cork  on  the  swells,  which  fortunately 
were  not  choppy. 

How  much  rougher  seas  could  the  boat  weather? 
This  question  and  conditions  were  debated  pro  and  con. 

Had  our  rockets  been  seen?  Did  the  first  torpedo  put 
the  wireless  out  of  commission?  If  it  had  been  able  to 
operate,  had  anybody  heard  our  S.  O.  S.  ?  Was  there 
enough  food  and  drinking  water  in  the  boat  to  last? 

This  brought  us  to  an  inventory  of  our  small  craft. 
After  considerable  difficulty,  we  found  the  lamp,  a  can 
of  powder  flares,  the  tin  of  ship's  biscuit,  matches  and 
spare  oil. 

The  lamp  was  lighted.  Other  lights  were  now  visible. 
As  we  drifted  in  the  darkness,  we  could  see  them  every 
time  we  mounted  the  crest  of  the  swells.  The  boats 
carrying  these  lights  remained  quite  close  together  at 
first. 

One  boat  came  within  sound  and  I  recognised  the 
Harry  Lauder-like  voice  of  the  second  assistant  purser 
whom  I  had  last  heard  on  Wednesday  at  the  ship's  con- 
cert. Now  he  was  singing — "I  Want  to  Marry  'arry," 
and  "I  Love  to  be  a  Sailor." 

There  were  an  American  woman  and  her  husband  in 
that  boat.  She  told  me  later  that  an  attempt  had  been 
made  to  sing  "Tipperary,"  and  "Rule  Britannia,"  but 
the  thought  of  that  slinking  dark  hull  of  destruction 
that  might  have  been  a  part  of  the  immediate  darkness 
resulted  in  the  abandonment  of  the  effort. 

"Who's  the  officer  in  that  boat?"  came  a  cheery  hail 
from  the  nearby  light. 

"What  the  hell  is  it  to  you?"  our  half  frozen  negro 
yelled  out  for  no  reason  apparent  to  me  other  than  pos- 
sibly the  relief  of  his  feelings. 

"Will  somebody  brain  that  skunk  with  a  pin?"  was 


36  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  inquiry  of  our  profound  oathsman,  who  also  ex- 
pressed regret  that  he  happened  to  be  sitting  too  far  away 
from  the  negro  to  reach  him.  He  accompanied  the  an- 
nouncement with  a  warmth  of  language  that  must  have 
relieved  the  negro  of  his  chill. 

The  fear  of  the  boats  crashing  together  produced  a 
general  inclination  toward  maximum  separation  on  the 
part  of  all  the  little  units  of  survivors,  with  the  result 
that  soon  the  small  crafts  stretched  out  for  several  miles, 
their  occupants  all  endeavoring  to  hold  the  heads  of  the 
boats  into  the  wind. 

Hours  passed.  The  swells  slopped  over  the  sides  of 
our  boat  and  filled  the  bottom  with  water.  We  bailed  it 
continually.  Most  of  us  were  wet  to  the  knees  and 
shivering  from  the  weakening  effects  of  the  icy  water. 
Our  hands  were  blistered  from  pulling  at  the  oars.  Our 
boat,  bobbing  about  like  a  cork,  produced  terrific  nausea, 
and  our  stomachs  ached  from  vain  wrenching. 

And  then  we  saw  the  first  light — the  first  sign  of  help 
coming — the  first  searching  glow  of  white  radiance  deep 
down  the  sombre  sides  of  the  black  pot  of  night  that 
hung  over  us.  I  don't  know  what  direction  it  came 
from — none  of  us  knew  north  from  south — there  was 
nothing  but  water  and  sky.  But  the  light — it  just  came 
from  over  there  where  we  pointed.  We  nudged  dumb,  sick 
boat  mates  and  directed  their  gaze  and  aroused  them  to 
an  appreciation  of  the  sight  that  gave  us  new  life. 

It  was  'way  over  there — first  a  trembling  quiver  of 
silver  against  the  blackness,  then  drawing  closer,  it  de- 
fined itself  as  a  beckoning  finger,  although  still  too  far 
away  to  see  our  feeble  efforts  to  attract  it. 

Nevertheless,  we  wasted  valuable  flares  and  the  ship's 
baker,    self-ordained   custodian   of   the   biscuit,   did   the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  37 

honours  handsomely  to  the  extent  of  a  biscuit  apiece  to 
each  of  the  twenty-three  occupants  of  the  boat. 

"Pull  starboard,  sonnies,"  sang  out  old  Captain  Dear, 
his  grey  chin  whiskers  bristling  with  joy  in  the  light  of 
the  round  lantern  which  he  held  aloft. 

We  pulled — pulled  lustily,  forgetting  the  strain  and 
pain  of  innards  torn  and  racked  with  violent  vomiting,  and 
oblivious  of  blistered  palms  and  wet,  half-frozen  feet. 

Then  a  nodding  of  that  finger  of  light, — a  happy,  snap- 
ping, crap-shooting  finger  that  seemed  to  say :  "Come 
on,  you  men,"  like  a  dice  player  wooing  the  bones — led  us 
to  believe  that  our  lights  had  been  seen. 

This  was  the  fact,  for  immediately  the  oncoming  ves- 
sel flashed  on  its  green  and  red  sidelights  and  we  saw  it 
was  headed  for  our  position.  We  floated  off  its  stern 
for  a  while  as  it  manoeuvred  for  the  best  position  in  which 
it  could  take  us  on  with  a  sea  that  was  running  higher 
and  higher. 

The  risk  of  that  rescuing  ship  was  great,  because  there 
was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  submarine  that  had 
destroyed  the  Laconia  still  lurked  in  the  darkness  nearby, 
but  those  on  board  took  the  risk  and  stood  by  for  the 
work  of  rescue. 

"Come  along  side  port!"  was  megaphoned  to  us.  As 
fast  as  we  could,  we  swung  under  the  stern  and  felt  our 
way  broadside  toward  the  ship's  side. 

Out  of  the  darkness  above,  a  dozen  small  pocket  flash- 
lights blinked  down  on  us  and  orders  began  to  be  shouted 
fast  and  thick. 

When  I  look  back  on  the  night,  I  don't  know  which 
was  the  more  hazardous,  going  down  the  slanting  side 
of  the  sinking  Laconia  or  going  up  the  side  of  the  res- 
cuing vessel. 

One  minute  the  swells  would  lift  us  almost  level  with 


38  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  rail  of  the  low-built  patrol  boat  and  mine  sweeper, 
but  the  next  receding  wave  would  swirl  us  down  into  a 
darksome  gulf  over  which  the  ship's  side  glowered  like 
a  slimy,  dripping  cliff. 

A  score  of  hands  reached  out  and  we  were  suspended 
in  the  husky,  tatooed  arms  of  those  doughty  British  Jack 
Tars,  looking  up  into  their  weather-beaten  youthful 
faces,  mumbling  our  thankfulness  and  reading  in  the 
gold  lettering  on  their  pancake  hats  the  legend,  "H.  M. 
S.  Laburnum/'    We  had  been  six  hours  in  the  open  boat. 

The  others  began  coming  alongside  one  by  one.  Wet 
and  bedraggled  survivors  were  lifted  aboard.  Women 
and  children  first  was  the  rule. 

The  scenes  of  reunion  were  heart-gripping.  Men  who 
had  remained  strangers  to  one  another  aboard  the  La- 
conia,  now  wrung  each  other  by  the  hand  or  embraced 
without  shame  the  frail  little  wife  of  a  Canadian  chap- 
lain who  had  found  one  of  her  missing  children  delivered 
up  from  another  boat.  She  smothered  the  child  with 
ravenous  mother  kisses  while  tears  of  gladness  streamed 
down  her  face. 

Boat  after  boat  came  alongside.  The  water-logged 
craft  containing  the  Captain  came  last. 

A  rousing  cheer  went  up  as  he  stepped  on  the  deck,  one 
mangled  hand  hanging  limp  at  his  side. 

The  sailors  divested  themselves  of  outer  clothing  and 
passed  the  garments  over  to  the  shivering  members  of  the 
Lacoma's  crew. 

The  cramped  officers'  quarters  down  under  the  quar- 
ter deck  were  turned  over  to  the  women  and  children. 
Two  of  the  Laconia's  stewardesses  passed  boiling  basins 
of  navy  cocoa  and  aided  in  the  disentangling  of  wet  and 
matted  tresses. 

The  men  grouped  themselves  near  steam-pipes  in  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT" 39 

petty  officers'  quarters  or  over  the  grating  of  the  engine 
rooms,  where  new  life  was  to  be  had  from  the  upward 
blasts  of  heated  air  that  brought  with  them  the  smell  of 
bilge  water  and  oil  and  sulphur  from  the  bowels  of  the 
vessel. 

The  injured — all  minor  cases,  sprained  backs,  wrenched 
legs  or  mashed  hands — were  put  away  in  bunks  under 
the  care  of  the  ship's  doctor. 

Dawn  was  melting  the  eastern  ocean  grey  to  pink  when 
the  task  was  finished.  In  the  officers'  quarters,  which 
had  now  been  invaded  by  the  men,  the  roll  of  the  vessel 
was  most  perceptible.  Each  time  the  floor  of  the  room 
slanted,  bottles  and  cups  and  plates  rolled  and  slid  back 
and  forth. 

On  the  tables  and  chairs  and  benches  the  women  rested. 
Sea-sick  mothers,  trembling  from  the  after-effects  of  the 
terrifying  experience  of  the  night,  sought  to  soothe  their 
crying  children. 

Then  somebody  happened  to  touch  a  key  on  the  small 
wooden  organ  that  stood  against  one  wall.  This  was 
enough  to  send  some  callous  seafaring  fingers  over  the 
ivory  keys  in  a  rhythm  unquestionably  religious  and  so 
irresistible  under  the  circumstances  that,  although  no  one 
seemed  to  know  the  words,  the  air  was  taken  up  in  a 
reverent,  humming  chant  by  all  in  the  room. 

At  the  last  note  of  the  Amen,  little  Father  Warring, 
his  black  garb  snaggled  in  places  and  badly  soiled,  stood 
before  the  centre  table  and  lifted  back  his  head  until  the 
morning  light,  filtering  through  the  opened  hatch  above 
him,  shown  down  on  his  kindly,  weary  face.  He  recited 
the  Lord's  prayer  and  all  present  joined.  The  simple,  im- 
pressive service  of  thanksgiving  ended  as  simply  as  it  had 
begun. 

Two  minutes  later  I  saw  the  old  Jewish  travelling  man 


4o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

limping  about  on  one  lame  leg  with  a  little  boy  in  his 
arms.  He  was  collecting  big,  round  British  pennies  for 
the  youngster. 

A  survey  and  cruise  of  the  nearby  waters  revealed  no 
more  occupied  boats  and  our  mine  sweeper,  with  its  load 
of  survivors  numbering  two  hundred  and  sixty-seven, 
steamed  away  to  the  east.  A  half  an  hour  steaming  and 
the  vessel  stopped  within  hailing  distance  of  two  sister 
ships,  toward  one  of  which  an  open  boat  manned  by 
jackies  was  being  pulled. 

I  saw  the  hysterical  French  actress,  her  blonde  hair 
wet  and  bedraggled,  lifted  out  of  the  boat  and  carried 
up  the  companionway.  Then  a  little  boy,  his  fresh  pink 
face  and  golden  hair  shining  in  the  morning  sun,  was 
passed  upward,  followed  by  some  other  survivors,  num- 
bering fourteen  in  all,  who  had  been  found  half-drowned 
and  almost  dead  from  exposure  in  a  partially  wrecked 
boat  that  was  picked  up  just  as  it  was  sinking.  It  was 
in  that  boat  that  one  American  woman  and  her  daughter 
died.  One  of  the  survivors  of  the  boat  told  me  the 
story.    He  said : 

"Our  boat  was  No.  8.  It  was  smashed  in  the  lowering. 
I  was  in  the  bow.  Mrs.  Hoy  and  her  daughter  were  sit- 
ting toward  the  stern.  The  boat  filled  with  water  rap- 
idly. 

"It  was  no  use  trying  to  bail  it  out.  There  was  a 
big  hole  in  the  side  and  it  came  in  too  fast.  The  boat's 
edge  sank  to  the  level  of  the  water  and  only  the  air- 
tanks  kept  it  afloat. 

"It  was  completely  awash.  Every  swell  rode  clear 
over  our  heads  and  we  had  to  hold  our  breath  until  we 
came  to  the  surface  again.  The  cold  water  just  takes 
the  life  out  of  you. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  41 

"We  saw  the  other  boats  showing  their  lights  and 
drifting  further  and  further  away  from  us.  We  had  no 
lights.  And  then,  towards  morning,  we  saw  the  rescuing 
ship  come  up  into  the  cluster  of  other  life-boats  that  had 
drifted  so  far  away  from  us.  One  by  one  we  saw  their 
lights  disappear  as  they  were  taken  on  board. 

"We  shouted  and  screamed  and  shrieked  at  the  tops  of 
our  voices,  but  could  not  attract  the  attention  of  any  of 
the  other  boats  or  the  rescuing  ship,  and  soon  we  saw 
its  lights  blink  out.  We  were  left  there  in  the  darkness 
with  the  wind  howling  and  the  sea  rolling  higher  every 
minute. 

"The  women  got  weaker  and  weaker.  Maybe  they  had 
been  dead  for  some  time.  I  don't  know,  but  a  wave  came 
and  washed  both  Mrs.  Hoy  and  her  daughter  out  of  the 
boat.  There  were  life-belts  around  their  bodies  and  they 
drifted  away  with  their  arms  locked  about  one  another." 

With  such  stories  ringing  in  our  ears,  with  exchanges 
of  experiences  pathetic  and  humorous,  we  steamed  into 
Oueenstown  harbour  shortly  after  ten  o'clock  that  night. 
We  had  been  attacked  at  a  point  two  hundred  miles  off 
the  Irish  coast  and  of  our  passengers  and  crew,  thirteen 
had  been  lost. 

As  I  stepped  ashore,  a  Britisher,  a  fellow-passenger 
aboard  the  Laconia,  who  knew  me  as  an  American, 
stepped  up  to  me.  During  the  voyage  we  had  had  many 
conversations  concerning  the  possibility  of  America  en- 
tering the  war.  Now  he  slapped  me  on  the  back  with 
this  question, 

"Well,  old  Casus  Belli,"  he  said,  "is  this  your  bloom- 
ing overt  act?" 

I  did  not  answer  him,  but  thirty  minutes  afterward 
I  was  pounding  out  on  a  typewriter  the  introduction  to  a 


42  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

four  thousand  word  newspaper  article  which  I  cabled 
that  night  and  which  put  the  question  up  to  the  American 
public  for  an  answer. 

Five  weeks  later  the  United  States  entered  the  war. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT" 43 

CHAPTER  II 
pershing's  arrival  in  Europe 

Lean,  clean,  keen — that's  the  way  they  looked — that 
first  trim  little  band  of  American  fighting  men  who 
made  their  historic  landing  on  the  shores  of  England, 
June  8th,  1917. 

I  went  down  from  London  to  meet  them  at  the  port 
of  arrival.  In  my  despatches  of  that  date,  I,  nor  none  of 
the  other  correspondents,  was  permitted  to  mention  the 
name  of  the  port.  This  was  supposed  to  be  the  secret 
that  was  to  be  religiously  kept  and  the  British  censor 
was  on  the  job  religiously. 

The  name  of  the  port  was  excluded  from  all  Ameri- 
can despatches  but  the  British  censor  saw  no  reason  to 
withhold  transmission  of  the  following  sentence — "Per- 
shing landed  to-day  at  an  English  port  and  was  given 
a  hearty  welcome  by  the  Mayor  of  Liverpool." 

So  I  am  presuming  at  this  late  date  of  writing  that 
it  would  serve  no  further  purpose  to  refrain  from  an- 
nouncing flatly  that  General  John  J.  Pershing,  Com- 
mander-in-Chief of  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces 
overseas,  and  his  staff,  landed  on  the  date  above  men- 
tioned, at  Liverpool,  England. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  the  Mersey  when  the 
giant  ocean  liner,  the  Baltic,  came  slowly  up  the  harbour 
in  the  tow  of  numerous  puffing  tugs.  The  great  grey 
vessel  that  had  safely  completed  the  crossing  of  the  sub- 
marine zone,  was  warped  to  the  dock-side. 

On  the  quay  there  were  a  full  brass  band  and  an  hon- 
ourary  escort  of  British  soldiers.     While  the  moorings 


44  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

were  being  fastened,  General  Pershing,  with  his  staff, 
appeared  on  the  promenade  deck  on  the  shore  side  of 
the  vessel. 

His  appearance  was  the  signal  for  a  crash  of  cymbals 
and  drums  as  the  band  blared  out  the  "Star  Spangled 
Banner."  The  American  commander  and  the  officers 
ranged  in  line  on  either  side  of  him,  stood  stiffly  at  at- 
tention, with  right  hands  raised  in  salute  to  the  visors 
of  their  caps. 

On  the  shore  the  lines  of  British  soldiery  brought  their 
arms  to  the  present  with  a  snap.  Civilian  witnesses  of 
the  ceremony  bared  their  heads.  The  first  anthem  was 
followed  by  the  playing  of  "God  Save  the  King."  All 
present  remained  at  the  salute. 

As  the  gangplank  was  lashed  in  place,  a  delegation 
of  British  military  and  civilian  officials  boarded  the  ship 
and  were  presented  to  the  General.  Below,  on  the  dock, 
every  newspaper  correspondent  and  photographer  in  the 
British  Isles,  I  think,  stood  waiting  in  a  group  that  far 
outnumbered  the  other  spectators. 

There  was  reason  for  this  seeming  lack  of  proportion. 
The  fact  was  that  but  very  few  people  in  all  of  England, 
as  well  as  in  all  of  the  United  States,  had  known  that 
General  Pershing  was  to  land  that  day. 

Few  had  known  that  he  was  on  the  water.  The  British 
Admiralty,  then  in  complete  control  of  the  ocean  lines 
between  America  and  the  British  Isles,  had  guarded  well 
the  secret.  England  lost  Kitchener  on  the  sea  and  now 
with  the  sea  peril  increased  a  hundredfold,  England  took 
pains  to  guard  well  the  passage  of  this  standard-bearer 
of  the  American  millions  that  were  to  come. 

Pershing  and  his  staff  stepped  ashore.  Lean,  clean, 
keen — those  are  the  words  that  described  their  appear- 
ance.    That  was  the  way  they  impressed  their  critical 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  45 

brothers  in  arms,  the  all-observing  military  dignities  that 
presented  Britain's  hearty,  unreserved  welcome  at  the 
water's  edge.  That  was  the  way  they  appeared  to  the 
proud  American  citizens,  residents  of  those  islands,  who 
gathered  to  meet  them. 

The  British  soldiers  admired  the  height  and  shoulders 
of  our  first  military  samples.  The  British  soldier  ap- 
proves of  a  greyhound  trimness  in  the  belt  zone.  He 
likes  to  look  on  carriage  and  poise.  He  appreciates  a 
steady  eye  and  stiff  jaw.  He  is  attracted  by  a  voice 
that  rings  sharp  and  firm.  The  British  soldier  calls  such 
a  combination,  "a  real  soldier." 

He  saw  one,  and  more  than  one,  that  morning  shortly 
after  nine  o'clock  when  Pershing  and  his  staff  commit- 
ted the  date  to  history  by  setting  foot  on  British  soil. 
Behind  the  American  commander  walked  a  staff  of  Amer- 
ican officers  whose  soldierly  bearing  and  general  appear- 
ance brought  forth  sincere  expressions  of  commendation 
from  the  assemblage  on  the  quay. 

At  attention  on  the  dock,  facing  the  sea-stained  flanks 
of  the  liner  Baltic,  a  company  of  Royal  Welsh  Fusiliers 
stood  like  a  frieze  of  clay  models  in  stainless  khaki,  pol- 
ished brass  and  shining  leather. 

General  Pershing  inspected  the  guard  of  honour  with 
keen  interest.  Walking  beside  the  American  commander 
was  the  considerably  stouter  and  somewhat  shorter  Lieu- 
tenant General  Sir  William  Pitcairn  Campbell,  K.C.B., 
Chief  of  the  Western  Command  of  the  British  Home 
Forces. 

Pershing's  inspection  of  that  guard  was  not  the  cur- 
sory one  that  these  honourary  affairs  usually  are.  Not  a 
detail  of  uniform  or  equipment  on  any  of  the  men  in  the 
guard  was  overlooked.  The  American  commander's  at- 
tention was  as  keen  to  boots,  rifles  and  belts,  as  though 


46  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

he  had  been  a  captain  preparing  the  small  command  for 
a  strenuous  inspection  at  the  hands  of  some  exacting 
superior. 

As  he  walked  down  the  stiff,  standing  line,  his  keen 
blue  eyes  taking  in  each  one  of  the  men  from  head  to 
foot,  he  stopped  suddenly  in  front  of  one  man  in  the 
ranks.  That  man  was  File  Three  in  the  second  set  of 
fours.  He  was  a  pale-faced  Tommy  and  on  one  of  his 
sleeves  there  was  displayed  two  slender  gold  bars,  placed 
on  the   forearm. 

The  decoration  was  no  larger  than  two  matches  in  a 
row  and  on  that  day  it  had  been  in  use  hardly  more  than 
a  year,  yet  neither  its  minuteness  nor  its  meaning  es- 
caped the  eyes  of  the  American  commander. 

Pershing  turned  sharply  and  faced  File  Three. 

"Where  did  you  get  your  two  wounds?"  he  asked. 

"At  Givenchy  and  Lavenze,  sir,"  replied  File  Three, 
his  face  pointed  stiffly  ahead.  File  Three,  even  now 
under  twenty-one  years  of  age,  had  received  his  wounds 
in  the  early  fighting  that  is  called  the  battle  of  Loos. 

"You  are  a  man,"  was  the  sincere,  all-meaning  re- 
joinder of  the  American  commander,  who  accompanied 
his  remark  with  a  straightforward  look  into  the  eyes  of 
File  Three. 

Completing  the  inspection  without  further  incident, 
General  Pershing  and  his  staff  faced  the  honour  guard 
and  stood  at  the  salute,  while  once  more  the  thunderous 
military  band  played  the  national  anthems  of  America 
and  Great  Britain. 

The  ceremony  was  followed  by  a  reception  in  the 
cabin  of  the  Baltic,  where  General  Pershing  received  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  Liverpool,  the  Lady  Mayoress,  and  a  dele- 
gation of  civil  authorities.  The  reception  ended  when 
General  Pershing  spoke  a  few  simple  words  to  the  as- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  47 

sembled  representatives  of  the  British  and  American 
Press. 

"More  of  us  are  coming,"  was  the  keynote  of  his  mod- 
est remarks.  Afterward  he  was  escorted  to  the  quay- 
side station,  where  a  special  train  of  the  type  labelled 
Semi-Royal  was  ready  to  make  the  express  run  to  Lon- 
don. 

The  reception  at  the  dock  had  had  none  of  the  features 
of  a  demonstration  by  reason  of  the  necessity  for  the 
ship's  arrival  being  secret,  but  as  soon  as  the  Baltic  had 
landed,  the  word  of  the  American  commander's  arrival 
spread  through  Liverpool  like  wildfire. 

The  railroad  from  the  station  lay  through  an  indus- 
trial section  of  the  city.  Through  the  railroad  ware- 
houses the  news  had  preceded  the  train.  Warehouse- 
men, porters  and  draymen  crowded  the  tops  of  the  cot- 
ton bales  and  oil  barrels  on  both  sides  of  the  track  as  the 
train  passed  through. 

Beyond  the  sheds,  the  news  had  spread  through  the 
many  floors  of  the  flour  mills  and  when  the  Pershing 
train  passed,  handkerchiefs  and  caps  fluttered  from  every 
crowded  door  and  window  in  the  whitened  walls.  Most 
of  the  waving  was  done  by  a  new  kind  of  flour-girl,  one 
who  did  not  wave  an  apron  because  none  of  them  were 
dressed  that  way. 

From  his  car  window,  General  Pershing  returned  the 
greetings  of  the  trousered  girls  and  women  who  were 
making  England's  bread  while  their  husbands,  fathers, 
brothers,  sweethearts  and  sons  were  making  German 
cemeteries. 

In  London,  General  Pershing  and  his  staff  occupied 
suites  at  the  Savoy  Hotel,  and  during  the  four  or  five 
days  of  the  American  commander's  sojourn  in  the  capi- 
tal of  the  British  Empire,  a  seemingly  endless  line  of 


48  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

visitors  of  all  the  Allied  nationalities  called  to  present 
their  compliments. 

The  enlisted  men  of  the  General's  staff  occupied  quar- 
ters in  the  old  stone  barracks  of  the  Tower  of  London, 
where  they  were  the  guests  of  the  men  of  that  artillery- 
organisation  which  prefixes  an  "Honourable"  to  its  name 
and  has  been  assigned  for  centuries  to  garrison  duty  in 
the  Tower  of  London. 

Our  soldiers  manifested  naive  interest  in  some  of 
England's  most  revered  traditions  and  particularly  in 
connection  with  historical  events  related  to  the  Tower 
of  London.  On  the  second  day  of  their  occupation  of 
this  old  fortress,  one  of  the  warders,  a  "Beef-eater"  in 
full  mediaeval  regalia,  was  escorting  a  party  of  the  Yanks 
through  the  dungeons. 

He  stopped  in  one  dungeon  and  lined  the  party  up  in 
front  of  a  stone  block  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  After 
a  silence  of  a  full  minute  to  produce  a  proper  degree  of 
impressiveness  for  the  occasion,  the  warder  announced, 
in  a  respectful  whisper: 

"This  is  where  Anne  Boleyn  was  executed." 

The  lined-up  Yanks  took  a  long  look  at  the  stone  block. 
A  silence  followed  during  the  inspection.  And  then  one 
regular,  desiring  further  information,  but  not  wishing 
to  be  led  into  any  traps  of  British  wit,  said : 

"All  right,  I'll  bite;  what  did  Annie  do?" 

Current  with  the  arrival  of  our  men  and  their  recep- 
tion by  the  honour  guard  of  the  Welsh  Fusiliers  there 
was  a  widespread  revival  of  an  old  story  which  the 
Americans  liked  to  tell  in  the  barrack  rooms  at  night. 

When  the  Welsh  Fusiliers  received  our  men  at  the 
dock  of  Liverpool,  they  had  with  them  their  historical 
mascot,  a  large  white  goat  with  horns  encased  in  in- 
scribed silver.    The  animal  wore  suspended  from  its  neck 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  49 

a  large  silver  plate,  on  which  was  inscribed  a  partial  his- 
tory of  the  Welsh  Fusiliers. 

Some  of  these  Fusiliers  told  our  men  the  story. 

"It  was  our  regiment — the  Welsh  Fusiliers,"  one  of 
them  said,  "that  fought  you  Yanks  at  Bunker  Hill.  And 
it  was  at  Bunker  Hill  that  our  regiment  captured  the 
great-great-granddaddy  of  this  same  white  goat,  and  his 
descendants  are  ever  destined  to  be  the  mascot  of  our 
regiment.     You  see,  we  have  still  got  your  goat." 

"But  you  will  notice,"  replied  one  of  the  Yanks,  "we've 
got  the  hill." 

During  the  four  days  in  London,  General  Pershing 
was  received  by  King  George  and  Queen  Mary  at  Buck- 
ingham Palace.  The  American  commander  engaged  in 
several  long  conferences  at  the  British  War  Office,  and 
then  with  an  exclusion  of  entertainment  that  was  pain- 
ful to  the  Europeans,  he  made  arrangements  to  leave  for 
his  new  post  in  France. 

A  specially  written  permission  from  General  Pershing 
made  it  possible  for  me  to  accompany  him  on  that  his- 
toric crossing  between  England  and  France.  Secret  or- 
ders for  the  departure  were  given  on  the  afternoon  and 
evening  of  June  12th.  Before  four  o'clock  of  the  next 
morning,  June  13th,  I  breakfasted  in  the  otherwise  de- 
serted dining-room  of  the  Savoy  with  the  General  and 
his  staff. 

Only  a  few  sleepy-eyed  attendants  were  in  the  halls 
and  lower  rooms  of  the  Savoy.  In  closed  automobiles 
we  were  whisked  away  to  Charing  Cross  Station.  We 
boarded  a  special  train  whose  destination  was  unknown. 
The  entire  party  was  again  in  the  hands  of  the  Intelli- 
gence Section  of  the  British  Admiralty,  and  every  pos- 
sible means  was  taken  to  suppress  all  definite  informa- 
tion concerning  the  departure. 


50  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

The  special  train  containing  General  Pershing  and  his 
staff  reached  Folkstone  at  about  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  We  left  the  train  at  the  dockside  and  boarded 
the  swift  Channel  steamer  moored  there.  A  small  vocif- 
erous contingent  of  English  Tommies  returning  to  the 
front  from  leave  in  "Blighty"  were  crowded  on  all  decks 
in  the  stern. 

With  life-boats  swinging  out  over  the  side  and  every 
one  wearing  life-preservers,  we  steamed  out  of  Folk- 
stone  harbour  to  challenge  the  submarine  dangers  of  the 
Channel. 

The  American  commander  occupied  a  forward  cabin 
suite  on  the  upper  deck.  His  aides  and  secretaries  had 
already  transformed  it  into  a  business-like  apartment. 
In  the  General's  mind  there  was  no  place  or  time  for  any 
consideration  of  the  dangers  of  the  Channel  crossing. 
Although  the  very  waters  through  which  we  dashed  were 
known  to  be  infested  with  submarines  which  would  have 
looked  upon  him  as  capital  prey,  I  don't  believe  the  Gen- 
eral ever  gave  them  as  much  as  a  thought. 

Every  time  I  looked  through  the  open  door  of  his 
cabin,  he  was  busy  dictating  letters  to  his  secretaries  or 
orders  or  instructions  to  his  aides  or  conferring  with  his 
Chief  of  Staff,  Brigadier  General  Harboard.  To  the 
American  commander,  the  hours  necessary  for  the  dash 
across  the  Channel  simply  represented  a  little  more  time 
which  he  could  devote  to  the  plans  for  the  great  work 
ahead  of  him. 

Our  ship  was  guarded  on  all  sides  and  above.  Swift 
torpedo  destroyers  dashed  to  and  fro  under  our  bow  and 
stern  and  circled  us  continually.  In  the  air  above  hydro- 
airplanes  and  dirigible  balloons  hovered  over  the  waters 
surrounding  us,  keeping  sharp  watch  for  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  the  dark  sub-sea  hulks  of  destruction. 


THE    ARRIVAL    IN     LONDON,    SHOWING    GENERAL    PERSHING,    MR.    PAGE, 
FIELD    MARSHAL   VISCOUNT   FRENCH,   LORD   DERBY, 
AND   ADMIRAL    SIMS 


GENERAL    PERSHING    BOWING    TO    THE    CROWD    IN     PARIS 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  51 

We  did  not  learn  until  the  next  day  that  while  we  were 
making  that  Channel  crossing,  the  German  air  forces  had 
crossed  the  Channel  in  a  daring  daylight  raid  and  were 
at  that  very  hour  dropping  bombs  on  London  around  the 
very  hotel  which  General  Pershing  had  just  vacated. 
Some  day,  after  the  war,  I  hope  to  ascertain  whether  the 
commander  of  that  flight  of  bombing  Gothas  started  on 
his  expedition  over  London  with  a  special  purpose  in 
view  and  whether  that  purpose  concerned  the  supposed 
presence  there  of  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  Amer- 
ican millions  that  were  later  to  change  the  entire  com- 
plexion of  the  war  against  Germany. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sunlight  day.  It  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  coast  line  of  France  began  to  push  itself  up 
through  the  distant  Channel  mists  and  make  itself  visible 
on  the  horizon.  I  stood  in  the  bow  of  the  ship  looking 
toward  the  coast  line  and  silent  with  thoughts  concern- 
ing the  momentousness  of  the  approaching  historical 
event. 

It  happened  that  I  looked  back  amidships  and  saw  a 
solitary  figure  standing  on  the  bridge  of  the  vessel.  It 
was  General  Pershing.  He  seemed  rapt  in  deep  thought. 
He  wore  his  cap  straight  on  his  head,  the  visor  shading 
his  eyes.  He  stood  tall  and  erect,  his  hands  behind  him, 
his  feet  planted  slightly  apart  to  accommodate  the  gentle 
roll  of  the  ship. 

He  faced  due  east  and  his  eyes  were  directed  toward 
the  shores  of  that  foreign  land  which  we  were  approach- 
ing. It  seemed  to  me  as  I  watched  him  that  his  mind 
must  have  been  travelling  back  more  than  a  century  to 
that  day  in  history  when  another  soldier  had  stood  on 
the  bridge  of  another  vessel,  crossing  those  same  waters, 
but  in  an  almost  opposite  direction. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  he  must  have  been  thinking  of 


52  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

that  historical  character  who  made  just  such  a  journey 
more  than  a  hundred  years  before, — a  great  soldier  who 
left  his  homeland  to  sail  to  other  foreign  shores  halfway 
around  the  world  and  there  to  lend  his  sword  in  the  fight 
for  the  sacred  principles  of  Democracy.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  day  that  Pershing  thought  of  Lafayette. 

As  we  drew  close  to  the  shore,  I  noticed  an  enormous 
concrete  breakwater  extending  out  from  the  harbour  en- 
trance. It  was  surmounted  by  a  wooden  railing  and  on 
the  very  end  of  it,  straddling  the  rail,  was  a  small  French 
boy.  His  legs  were  bare  and  his  feet  were  encased  in 
heavy  wooden  shoes.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  red  stock- 
ing cap  of  the  liberty  type.  As  we  came  within  hailing 
distance,  he  gave  to  us  the  first  greeting  that  came  from 
the  shores  of  France  to  these  first  arriving  American 
soldiers. 

"Vive  VAmerique!"  he  shouted,  cupping  his  hands  to 
his  mouth  and  sending  his  shrill  voice  across  the  water 
to  us.  Pershing  on  the  bridge  heard  the  salutation.  He 
smiled,  touched  his  hand  to  his  hat  and  waved  to  the  lad 
on  the  railing. 

We  landed  that  day  at  Boulogne,  June  13th,  191 7. 
Military  bands  massed  on  the  quay,  blared  out  the  Amer- 
ican National  Anthem  as  the  ship  was  warped  alongside 
the  dock.  Other  ships  in  the  busy  harbour  began  blow- 
ing whistles  and  ringing  bells,  loaded  troop  and  hospital 
ships  lying  nearby  burst  forth  into  cheering.  The  news 
spread  like  contagion  along  the  harbour  front. 

As  the  gangplank  was  lowered,  French  military  digni- 
taries in  dress  uniforms  resplendent  with  gold  braid,  but- 
tons and  medals,  advanced  to  that  part  of  the  deck  amid- 
ships where  the  General  stood.  They  saluted  respectfully 
and  pronounced  elaborate  addresses  in  their  native  tongue. 
They  were  followed  by  numerous  French  Government 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  53 

officials  in  civilian  dress  attire.  The  city,  the  depart- 
ment and  the  nation  were  represented  in  the  populous 
delegations  who  presented  their  compliments,  and  con- 
veyed to  the  American  commander  the  unstinted  and 
heartfelt  welcome  of  the  entire  people  of  France. 

Under  the  train  sheds  on  the  dock,  long  stiff,  standing 
ranks  of  French  poilus  wearing  helmets  and  their  light 
blue  overcoats  pinned  back  at  the  knees,  presented  arms 
as  the  General  walked  down  the  lines  inspecting  them. 
At  one  end  of  the  line,  rank  upon  rank  of  French  marines, 
and  sailors  with  their  flat  hats  with  red  tassels,  stood 
at  attention  awaiting  inspection. 

The  docks  and  train  sheds  were  decorated  with  French 
and  American  flags  and  yards  and  yards  of  the  mutually- 
owned  red,  white  and  blue.  Thousands  of  spectators 
began  to  gather  in  the  streets  near  the  station,  and  their 
continuous  cheers  sufficed  to  rapidly  augment  their  own 
numbers. 

Accompanied  by  a  veteran  French  colonel,  one  of 
whose  uniform  sleeves  was  empty,  General  Pershing,  as 
a  guest  of  the  city  of  Boulogne,  took  a  motor  ride  through 
the  streets  of  this  busy  port  city.  He  was  quickly  re- 
turned to  the  station,  where  he  and  his  staff  boarded  a 
special  train  for  Paris.     I  went  with  them. 

That  train  to  Paris  was,  of  necessity,  slow.  It  pro- 
ceeded slowly  under  orders  and  with  a  purpose.  No  one 
in  France,  with  the  exception  of  a  select  official  circle, 
had  been  aware  that  General  Pershing  was  arriving  that 
day  until  about  thirty  minutes  before  his  ship  was  warped 
into  the  dock  at  Boulogne.  It  has  always  been  a  mystery 
to  me  how  the  French  managed  to  decorate  the  station 
at  Boulogne  upon  such  short  notice. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  train  crawled  slowly  toward 
Paris  for  the  purpose  of  giving  the  French  capital  time 


54  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

to  throw  off  the  coat  of  war  weariness  that  it  had  worn 
for  three  and  a  half  years  and  don  gala  attire  for  this 
occasion.  Paris  made  full  use  of  every  minute  of  that 
time,  as  we  found  when  the  train  arrived  at  the  French 
capital  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  evening  papers  in 
Paris  had  carried  the  news  of  the  American  comman- 
der's landing  on  the  shores  of  France,  and  Paris  was 
ready  to  receive  him  as  Paris  had  never  before  received 
a  world's  notable. 

The  sooty  girders  of  the  Gare  du  Nord  shook  with 
cheers  when  the  special  train  pulled  in.  The  aifles  of  the 
great  terminal  were  carpeted  with  red  plush.  A  battalion 
of  bearded  poilus  of  the  Two  Hundred  and  Thirty-sev- 
enth Colonial  Regiment  was  lined  up  on  the  platform  like 
a  wall  of  silent  grey,  bristling  with  bayonets  and  shiny 
trench  helmets. 

General  Pershing  stepped  from  his  private  car.  Flash- 
lights boomed  and  batteries  of  camera  men  manoeuvred 
into  positions  for  the  lens  barrage.  The  band  of  the 
Garde  Republicaine  blared  forth  the  strains  of  the  "Star 
Spangled  Banner,"  bringing  all  the  military  to  a  halt  and 
a  long  standing  salute.  It  was  followed  by  the  "Mar- 
seillaise." 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  train-side  greetings  and  intro- 
ductions, Marshal  Joffre  and  General  Pershing  walked 
down  the  platform  together.  The  tops  of  the  cars  of 
every  train  in  the  station  were  crowded  with  workmen. 
As  the  tall,  slender  American  commander  stepped  into 
view,  the  privileged  observers  on  the  car-tops  began  to 
cheer. 

A  minute  later,  there  was  a  terrific  roar  from  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  station.  The  crowds  outside  had  heard 
the  cheering  within.     They  took  it  up  with  thousands  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  55 


throats.    They  made  their  welcome  a  ringing  one.    Paris 
took  Pershing  by  storm. 

The  General  was  ushered  into  the  specially  decorated 
reception  chamber,  which  was  hung  and  carpeted  with 
brilliant  red  velvet  and  draped  with  the  Allied  flags. 
After  a  brief  formal  exchange  of  greetings  in  this  large 
chamber,  he  and  his  staff  were  escorted  to  the  line  of 
waiting  automobiles  at  the  side  of  the  station  in  the  Rue 
de  Roubaix. 

Pershing's  appearance  in  the  open  was  the  cue  for 
wild,  unstinted  applause  and  cheering  from  the  crowds 
which  packed  the  streets  and  jammed  the  windows  of  the 
tall  buildings  opposite. 

General  Pershing  and  M.  Painleve,  Minister  of  War, 
took  seats  in  a  large  automobile.  They  were  preceded 
by  a  motor  containing  United  States  Ambassador  Sharp 
and  former  Premier  Viviani.  The  procession  started  to 
the  accompaniment  of  martial  music  by  massed  military 
bands  in  the  courtyard  of  the  station.  It  passed  through 
the  Rue  de  Compiegne,  the  Rue  de  Lafayette,  the  Place 
de  l'Opera,  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  the  Place  de  la 
Madeleine,  the  Rue  Royale,  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

There  were  some  fifty  automobiles  in  the  line,  the  rear 
of  which  was  brought  up  by  an  enormous  motor-bus 
load  of  the  first  American  soldiers  from  the  ranks  to 
pass  through  the  streets  of  Paris. 

The  crowds  overflowed  the  sidewalks.  They  extended 
from  the  building  walls  out  beyond  the  curbs  and  into 
the  streets,  leaving  but  a  narrow  lane  through  which  the 
motors  pressed  their  way  slowly  and  with  the  exercise  of 
much  care.  From  the  crowded  balconies  and  windows 
overlooking  the  route,  women  and  children  tossed  down 
showers  of  flowers  and  bits  of  coloured  paper. 

The  crowds  were  so  dense  that  other  street  traffic  be- 


56  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

came  marooned  in  the  dense  sea  of  joyously  excited  and 
gesticulating  French  people.  Vehicles  thus  marooned  im- 
mediately became  islands  of  vantage.  They  were  soon 
covered  with  men  and  women  and  children,  who  climbed 
on  top  of  them  and  clung  to  the  sides  to  get  a  better  look 
at  the  khaki-clad  occupants  of  the  autos. 

Old  grey-haired  fathers  of  French  fighting  men  bared 
their  heads  and  with  tears  streaming  down  their  cheeks 
shouted  greetings  to  the  tall,  thin,  grey-moustached 
American  commander  who  was  leading  new  armies  to 
the  support  of  their  sons.  Women  heaped  armfuls  of 
roses  into  the  General's  car  and  into  the  cars  of  other 
American  officers  that  followed  him.  Paris  street  gamins 
climbed  the  lamp-posts  and  waved  their  caps  and  wooden 
shoes  and  shouted  shrilly. 

American  flags  and  red,  white  and  blue  bunting  waved 
wherever  the  eye  rested.  English-speaking  Frenchmen 
proudly  explained  to  the  uninformed  that  "Pershing" 
was  pronounced  "Peur-chigne"  and  not  "Pair-shang." 

Paris  was  not  backward  in  displaying  its  knowledge  of 
English.  Gay  Parisiennes  were  eager  to  make  use  of  all 
the  English  at  their  command,  that  they  might  welcome 
the  new  arrivals  in  their  native  tongue. 

Some  of  these  women  shouted  "Hello,"  "Heep,  heep, 
hourrah,"  "Good  morning,"  "How  are  you,  keed?"  and 
"Cock-tails  for  two."  Some  of  the  expressions  were  not 
so  inappropriate  as  they  sounded. 

Occasionally  there  came  from  the  crowds  a  good  old 
genuine  American  whoop-em-up  yell.  This  happened 
when  the  procession  passed  groups  of  American  ambu- 
lance workers  and  other  sons  of  Uncle  Sam,  wearing  the 
uniforms  of  the  French,  Canadian  and  English  Corps. 

They  joined  with  Australians  and  South  African  sol- 
diers on  leave  to  cheer  on  the  new-coming  Americans 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  57 

with  such  spontaneous  expressions  as  "Come  on,  you 
Yanks,"  "Now  let's  get  'em,"  and  "Eat  'em  up,  Uncle 
Sam." 

The  frequent  stopping  of  the  procession  by  the  crowds 
made  it  happen  quite  frequently  that  the  automobiles 
were  completely  surrounded  by  enthusiasts,  who  reached 
up  and  tried  to  shake  hands  with  the  occupants.  Pretty 
girls  kissed  their  hands  and  blew  the  invisible  confection 
toward  the  men  in  khaki. 

The  bus-load  of  enlisted  men  bringing  up  the  rear 
received  dozens  of  bouquets  from  the  girls.  The  flowers 
were  hurled  at  them  from  all  directions.  Every  two 
hundred  feet  the  French  would  organise  a  rousing  shout, 
"Vive  V Amcrique !"  for  them. 

Being  the  passive  recipients  of  this  unusual  adulation 
produced  only  embarrassment  on  the  part  of  the  regulars 
who  simply  had  to  sit  there,  smiling  and  taking  it.  Just 
to  break  the  one-sided  nature  of  the  demonstrations,  one 
of  the  enlisted  men  stood  up  in  his  seat  and,  addressing 
himself  to  his  mates,  shouted  : 

"Come  on,  fellows,  let's  give  'em  a  'veever'  ourselves. 
Now  all  together." 

The  bus-load  rose  to  its  feet  like  one  man  and  shouted 
"Veever  for  France."  Their  "France"  rhymed  with 
"pants,"  so  that  none  of  the  French  understood  it,  but 
they  did  understand  the  sentiment  behind  the  husky 
American  lungs. 

Through  such  scenes  as  these,  the  procession  reached 
the  great  Place  de  la  Concorde.  In  this  wide,  paved,  open 
space  an  enormous  crowd  had  assembled.  As  the  autos 
appeared  the  cheering,  the  flower  throwing,  the  tumultu- 
ous kiss-blowing  began.  It  increased  in  intensity  as  the 
motors  stopped  in  front  of  the  Hotel  Crillon  into  which 
General  Pershing  disappeared,  followed  by  his  staff. 


58  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Immediately  the  cheering  changed  to  a  tremendous 
clamorous  demand  for  the  General's  appearance  on  the 
balcony  in  front  of  his  apartments. 

"Au  balcon,  au  balcon,"  were  the  cries  that  filled  the 
Place.    The  crowd  would  not  be  denied. 

General  Pershing  stepped  forth  on  the  balcony.  He 
stood  behind  the  low  marble  railing,  and  between  two 
enormous  white-stoned  columns.  A  cluster  of  the  Allied 
flags  was  affixed  to  each  column.  The  American  com- 
mander surveyed  the  scene  in  front  of  him. 

There  are  no  trees  or  shrubbery  in  the  vast  Place  de 
la  Concorde.  Its  broad  paved  surface  is  interrupted  only 
by  artistically  placed  groups  of  statuary  and  fountains. 

To  the  General's  right,  as  he  faced  the  Place,  were  the 
trees  and  greenery  of  the  broad  Champs  Elysees.  On 
his  left  were  the  fountains  and  the  gardens  of  the  Tuil- 
leries.  At  the  further  end  of  the  Place,  five  hundred  feet 
straight  in  front  of  him,  were  the  banks  and  the  orna- 
mental bridges  of  the  Seine,  beyond  which  could  be  seen 
the  columned  facade  of  the  Chambre  des  Deputies,  and 
above  and  beyond  that,  against  the  blue  sky  of  a  late 
June  afternoon,  rose  the  majestic  golden  dome  of  the 
Invalides,  over  the  tomb  of  Napoleon. 

General  Pershing  looked  down  upon  the  sea  of  faces 
turned  up  toward  him,  and  then  it  seemed  that  nature 
desired  to  play  a  part  in  the  ceremony  of  that  great  day. 
A  soft  breeze  from  the  Champs  Elysees  touched  the  clus- 
ter of  flags  on  the  General's  right  and  from  all  the  Allied 
emblems  fastened  there  it  selected  one  flag. 

The  breeze  tenderly  caught  the  folds  of  this  flag  and 
wafted  them  across  the  balcony  on  which  the  General 
bowed.  He  saw  and  recognised  that  flag.  He  extended 
his  hand,  caught  the  flag  in  his  fingers  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips.    All  France  and  all  America  represented  in  that 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  59 

vast  throng  that  day  cheered  to  the  mighty  echo  when 
Pershing  kissed  the  tri-colour  of  France. 

It  was  a  tremendous,  unforgettable  incident.  It  was 
exceeded  by  no  other  incident  during  those  days  of  re- 
ceptions and  ceremonies,  except  one.  That  was  an  inci- 
dent which  occurred  not  in  the  presence  of  thousands, 
but  in  a  lonely  old  burial  ground  on  the  outskirts  of 
Paris.  This  happened  several  days  after  the  demonstra- 
tion in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

On  that  day  of  bright  sunshine,  General  Pershing  and 
a  small  party  of  officers,  French  and  American,  walked 
through  the  gravel  paths  of  Picpus  Cemetery  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  Paris,  where  the  bodies  of  hundreds  of  those 
who  made  the  history  of  France  are  buried. 

Several  French  women  in  deep  mourning  courtesied  as 
General  Pershing  passed.  His  party  stopped  in  front  of 
two  marble  slabs  that  lay  side  by  side  at  the  foot  of  a 
granite  monument.  From  the  General's  party  a  French- 
man stepped  forward  and,  removing  his  high  silk  hat,  he 
addressed  the  small  group  in  quiet,  simple  tones  and  well- 
chosen  English  words.  He  was  the  Marquis  de  Cham- 
brun.     He  said : 

"On  this  spot  one  can  say  that  the  historic  ties  be- 
tween our  nations  are  not  the  result  of  the  able  schemes 
of  skilful  diplomacy.  No,  the  principles  of  liberty,  jus- 
tice and  independence  are  the  glorious  links  between  our 
nations. 

"These  principles  have  enlisted  the  hearts  of  our  de- 
mocracies. They  have  made  the  strength  of  their  union 
and  have  brought  about  the  triumph  of  their  efforts. 

"To-day,  when,  after  nearly  a  century  and  a  half, 
America  and  France  are  engaged  in  a  conflict  for  the 


60  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

same  cause  upon  which  their  early  friendship  was  based, 
we  are  filled  with  hope  and  confidence. 

"We  know  that  our  great  nations  are  together  with 
our  Allies  invincible,  and  we  rejoice  to  think  that  the 
United  States  and  France  are  reunited  in  the  fight  for 
liberty,  and  will  reconsecrate,  in  a  new  victory,  their  ever- 
lasting friendship  of  which  your  presence  to-day  at  this 
grave  is  an  exquisite  and  touching  token." 

General  Pershing  advanced  to  the  tomb  and  placed 
upon  the  marble  slab  an  enormous  wreath  of  pink  and 
white  roses.  Then  he  stepped  back.  He  removed  his 
cap  and  held  it  in  both  hands  in  front  of  him.  The 
bright  sunlight  shone  down  on  his  silvery  grey  hair. 
Looking  down  at  the  grave,  he  spoke  in  a  quiet,  impres- 
sive tone  four  simple,  all-meaning  words: 

"Lafayette,  we  are  here." 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  61 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    LANDING    OF    THE    FIRST    AMERICAN    CONTINGENT 

IN   FRANCE 

The  first  executive  work  of  the  American  Expedi- 
tionary Forces  overseas  was  performed  in  a  second  floor 
suite  of  the  Crillon  Hotel  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  in 
Paris.  This  suite  was  the  first  temporary  headquarters 
of  the  American  commander. 

The  tall  windows  of  the  rooms  looked  down  on  the 
historic  Place  which  was  the  scene  of  so  many  momentous 
events  in  French  history.  The  windows  were  hardly  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  very  spot  where  the  guillotine 
dripped  red  in  the  days  of  the  Terror.  It  was  here  that 
the  heads  of  Louis  XVI  and  Marie  Antoinette  dropped 
into  the  basket. 

During  General  Pershing's  comparatively  brief  occu- 
pancy of  these  headquarters,  the  reception  rooms  were 
constantly  banked  with  fresh-cut  flowers,  the  daily  gifts 
of  the  French  people, — flowers  that  were  replenished 
every  twenty-four  hours.  The  room  was  called  the 
"Salon  des  Batailles." 

In  one  corner  of  the  room,  near  a  window  overlooking 
the  Place,  was  General  Pershing's  table.  It  was  adorned 
with  a  statuette  of  General  Joffre  and  a  cluster  of  minia- 
tures of  captured  German  standards.  Extending  from 
the  floor  to  the  ceiling  on  one  of  the  walls  were  two  enor- 
mous oil  copies  of  "La  Bataille  de  Fontenoy"  and  the 
"Passage  du  Rhin."  A  large  flag-draped  photograph  of 
President  Wilson  occupied  a  place  of  honour  on  an  easel 
at  one  end  of  the  room. 


62  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

During  the  first  week  that  General  Pershing  stopped 
at  the  hotel,  the  sidewalk  and  street  beneath  his  win- 
dows were  constantly  crowded  with  people.  The  crowds 
waited  there  all  day  long,  just  in  the  hope  of  catching 
a  glimpse  of  the  American  commander  if  he  should  hap- 
pen to  be  leaving  or  returning  to  his  quarters.  It  seemed 
as  if  every  Parisienne  and  Parisian  had  taken  upon  her- 
self and  himself  the  special  duty  of  personally  observing 
General  Pershing,  of  waving  him  an  enthusiastic  "vive" 
and  possibly  being  within  the  scope  of  his  returning  sa- 
lute. 

But  the  American  commander  would  not  permit  dem- 
onstrations and  celebrations  to  interfere  with  the  impor- 
tant duties  that  he  faced.  Two  days  are  all  that  were  de- 
voted to  these  social  ceremonies  which  the  enthusiastic 
and  hospitable  French  would  have  made  almost  endless. 
Dinners,  receptions  and  parades  were  ruthlessly  erased 
from  the  working  day  calendar.  The  American  com- 
mander sounded  the  order  "To  work"  with  the  same 
martial  precision  as  though  the  command  had  been  a 
sudden  call  "To  arms." 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  after  General  Per- 
shing's arrival  in  Paris,  the  typewriters  began  clicking 
incessantly  and  the  telephones  began  ringing  busily  in  the 
large  building  which  was  occupied  on  that  day  as  the 
headquarters  of  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces  in 
France. 

This  building  was  Numbers  27  and  31  Rue  de  Constan- 
tine.  It  faced  the  trees  and  shrubbery  bordering  the 
approach  to  the  Seine  front  of  the  Invalides.  The  build- 
ing was  two  stories  high  with  grey-white  walls  and  a 
mansard  roof.  At  that  time  it  could  be  immediately 
identified  as  the  one  in  front  of  which  stood  a  line  of 
American  motor  cars,  as  the  one  where  trim   United 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  63 

States  regulars  walked  sentry  post  past  the  huge  doors 
through  which  frequent  orderlies  dashed  with  messages. 

Ten  days  before,  the  building  had  been  the  residence  of 
a  Marquis  and  had  contained  furniture  and  art  valued 
at  millions  of  francs.  All  of  those  home-like  character- 
istics had  been  removed  so  effectively  that  even  the  name 
of  the  kindly  Marquis  had  been  forgotten.  I  am  sure 
that  he,  himself,  at  the  end  of  that  ten-day  period  could 
not  have  recognised  his  converted  salons  where  the  elab- 
orate ornamentation  had  been  changed  to  the  severe  sim- 
plicity typical  of  a  United  States  Army  barracks. 

General  Pershing's  office  was  located  on  the  second 
floor  of  the  house  and  in  one  corner.  In  those  early 
days  it  was  carpetless  and  contained  almost  a  monkish 
minimum  of  furniture.  There  were  the  General's  chair 
and  his  desk  on  which  there  stood  a  peculiar  metal  stand- 
ard for  one  of  those  one-piece  telephone  sets  with  which 
Americans  are  familiar  only  in  French  stage  settings.  A 
book-case  with  glass  doors,  a  stenographer's  table  and 
chair,  and  two  red  plush  upholstered  chairs,  for  visitors, 
comprised  the  furniture  inventory  of  the  room. 

One  of  the  inner  walls  of  the  room  was  adorned  with 
a  large  mirror  with  a  gilt  frame,  and  in  the  other  wall 
was  a  plain  fireplace.  There  were  tall  windows  in  the 
two  outer  walls  which  looked  out  on  the  Rue  de  Con- 
stantine  and  the  Rue  de  Grenelle.  Opposite  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle  windows  there  was  a  small,  deeply  shaded  park 
where  children  rolled  hoops  during  the  heat  of  the  day 
and  where  convalescent  French  soldiers  sat  and  watched 
the  children  at  play  or  perhaps  discussed  the  war  and 
orher  things  with  the  nurse-maids. 

This  was  the  first  workshop  in  France  of  the  Ameri- 
can commander-in-chief.  Adjoining  rooms  to  the  left 
and  right  were  occupied  by  the  General's  staff  and  his 


64  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

aides.  And  it  was  in  these  rooms  that  the  overseas  plans 
for  the  landing  of  the  first  American  armed  contingent 
in  France  were  formulated. 

It  is  safe  now  to  mention  that  St.  Nazaire  on  the  west 
coast  of  France  was  the  port  at  which  our  first  armed 
forces  disembarked.  I  was  in  Paris  when  the  informa- 
tion of  their  coming  was  whispered  to  a  few  chosen 
correspondents  who  were  to  be  privileged  to  witness  this 
historical  landing. 

This  was  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  our  nation 
that  a  large  force  of  armed  Americans  was  to  cross  the 
seas  to  Europe.  For  five  and  a  half  months  prior  to  the 
date  of  their  landing,  the  ruthless  submarine  policy  of 
the  Imperial  German  Government  had  been  in  effect,  and 
our  troop  ships  with  those  initial  thousands  of  American 
soldiers  represented  the  first  large  Armada  to  dare  the 
ocean  crossing  since  Germany  had  instituted  her  sub-sea 
blockade  zone  in  February  of  that  same  year. 

Thus  it  was  that  any  conversation  concerning  the  fact 
that  our  men  were  on  the  seas  and  at  the  mercy  of  the 
U-boats  was  conducted  with  the  greatest  of  care  behind 
closed  doors.  In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  French  agents 
of  contra  espionage,  Paris  and  all  France,  for  that  mat- 
ter, housed  numerous  spies.  There  were  some  anxious 
moments  while  that  first  contingent  was  on  the  water. 

Our  little  group  of  correspondents  was  informed  that 
we  should  be  conducted  by  American  officers  to  the  port 
of  landing,  but  the  name  of  that  port  was  withheld  from 
us.  By  appointment  we  met  at  a  Paris  railroad  station 
where  we  were  provided  with  railroad  tickets.  We  took 
our  places  in  compartments  and  rode  for  some  ten  or 
twelve  hours,  arriving  early  the  next  morning  at  St. 
Nazaire. 

This  little  village  on  the  coast  of  Brittany  was  tucked 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  t>; 

away  there  in  the  golden  sands  of  the  seashore.  Its 
houses  had  walls  of  white  stucco  and  gabled  roofs  of 
red  tile.  In  the  small  rolling  hills  behind  it  were  green 
orchards  and  fields  of  yellow  wheat.  The  villagers,  old 
women  in  their  starched  white  head-dresses  and  old  men 
wearing  faded  blue  smocks  and  wooden  shoes,  were  un- 
mindful of  the  great  event  for  which  history  had  des- 
tined their  village. 

On  the  night  before  the  landing  the  townspeople  had 
retired  with  no  knowledge  of  what  was  to  happen  on 
the  following  day.  In  the  morning  they  awoke  to  find 
strange  ships  that  had  come  in  the  night,  riding  safely 
at  anchor  in  the  harbour.  The  wooden  shutters  began 
to  pop  open  with  bangs  as  excited  heads,  encased  in 
peaked  flannel  nightcaps,  protruded  themselves  from  bed- 
room windows  and  directed  anxious  queries  to  those  who 
happened  to  be  abroad  at  that  early  hour. 

St.  Nazaire  came  to  life  more  quickly  that  morning 
than  ever  before  in  its  history.  The  Mayor  of  the  town 
was  one  of  the  busiest  figures  on  the  street.  In  high  hat 
and  full  dress  attire,  he  hurried  about  trying  to  assemble 
the  village  orchestra  of  octogenarian  fiddlers  and  flute 
players  to  play  a  welcome  for  the  new  arrivals.  The 
townspeople  neglected  their  cafe  an  lait  to  rush  down  to 
the  quay  to  look  at  the  new  ships. 

The  waters  of  the  harbour  sparkled  in  the  early  morn- 
ing sunlight.  The  dawn  had  been  grey  and  misty,  but 
now  nature  seemed  to  smile.  The  strange  ships  from 
the  other  side  of  the  world  were  grey  in  hulk  but  now 
there  were  signs  of  life  and  colour  aboard  each  one  of 
them. 

Beyond  the  troop  ships  lay  the  first  United  States  war- 
ships, units  of  that  remarkable  fighting  organisation 
which  in  the  year  that  was  to  immediately  follow  that 


66  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

very  day  were  to  escort  safely  across  three  thousand 
miles  of  submarine-infested  water  more  than  a  million 
and  a  half  American  soldiers. 

The  appearance  of  these  first  warships  of  ours  was 
novel  to  the  French  townspeople.  Our  ships  had  peculiar 
looking  masts,  masts  which  the  townspeople  compared  to 
the  baskets  which  the  French  peasants  carry  on  their 
backs  when  they  harvest  the  lettuce.  Out  further  from 
the  shore  were  our  low-lying  torpedo  destroyers,  pointed 
toward  the  menace  of  the  outer  deep. 

Busy  puffing  tugs  were  warping  the  first  troop  ship 
toward  the  quay-side.  Some  twenty  or  thirty  American 
sailors  and  soldiers,  who  had  been  previously  landed  by 
launch  to  assist  in  the  disembarkation,  were  handling  the 
lines  on  the  dock. 

When  but  twenty  feet  from  the  quay-side,  the  succes- 
sive decks  of  the  first  troop  ship  took  on  the  appearance 
of  mud-coloured  layers  from  the  khaki  uniforms  of  the 
stiff  standing  ranks  of  our  men.  A  military  band  on  the 
forward  deck  was  playing  the  national  anthems  of  France 
and  America  and  every  hand  was  being  held  at  the  salute. 

As  the  final  bars  of  the  "Star  Spangled  Banner" 
crashed  out  and  every  saluting  hand  came  snappily  down, 
one  American  soldier  on  an  upper  deck  leaned  over  the 
rail  and  shouted  to  a  comrade  on  the  shore  his  part  of 
the  first  exchange  of  greetings  between  our  fighting 
men  upon  this  historic  occasion.  Holding  one  hand  to 
his  lips,  he  seriously  enquired : 

"Say,  do  they  let  the  enlisted  men  in  the  saloons 
here?" 

Another  soldier  standing  near  the  stern  rail  had  a  dif- 
ferent and  more  serious  interrogation  to  make.  He  ap- 
peared rather  blase  about  it  as  he  leaned  over  the  rail 


THE    FIRST     \MF.RK  AN    FOOT    ON    FRENCH    SOU. 


THE    FIRST    (•I.IMI'SE    HF    IRANI.  V. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  67 

and,  directing-  his  voice  toward  a  soldier  on  the  dock, 
casually  demanded : 

"Say,  where  the  Hell  is  all  this  trouble,  anyhow  ?" 

These  two  opening  sorties  produced  a  flood  of  others. 
The  most  common  enquiry  was :  "What's  the  name  of 
this  place?"  and  "Is  this  France  or  England?"  When 
answers  were  made  to  these  questions,  the  recipients  of 
the  information,  particularly  if  they  happened  to  be  "old- 
timers  in  the  army,"  would  respond  by  remarking,  "Well, 
it's  a  damn  sight  better  than  the  Mexican  border." 

As  our  men  came  over  the  ship's  side  and  down  the 
runways,  there  was  no  great  reception  committee  await- 
ing them.  Among  the  most  interested  spectators  of  the 
event  were  a  group  of  stolid  German  prisoners  of  war 
and  the  two  French  soldiers  guarding  them.  The  two 
Frenchmen  talked  volubly  with  a  wealth  of  gesticulation, 
while  the  Germans  maintained  their  characteristic  glum- 
ness. 

The  German  prisoners  appeared  to  be  anything  but 
discouraged  at  the  sight.  Some  of  them  even  wore  a 
smile  that  approached  the  supercilious.  With  some  of 
them  that  smile  seemed  to  say :  "You  can't  fool  us.  We 
know  these  troops  are  not  Americans.  They  are  either 
Canadians  or  Australians  coming  from  England.  Our 
German  U-boats  won't  let  Americans  cross  the  ocean." 

Some  of  those  German  prisoners  happened  to  have 
been  in  America  before  the  war.  They  spoke  English 
and  recognised  the  uniforms  of  our  men.  Their  silent 
smiles  seemed  to  say :  "Well,  they  don't  look  so  good  at 
that.  We  have  seen  better  soldiers.  And,  besides,  there 
is  only  a  handful  of  them.  Not  enough  can  come  to 
make  any  difference.  Anyhow,  it  is  too  late  now.  The 
war  will  be  over  before  any  appreciable  number  can  get 
here." 


68  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

But  the  stream  of  khaki  continued  to  pour  out  of  the 
ship's  side.  Company  after  company  of  our  men,  loaded 
down  with  packs  and  full  field  equipment,  lined  up  on 
the  dock  and  marched  past  the  group  of  German  pris- 
oners. 

"We're  passing  in  review  for  you,  Fritzie,"  one  irre- 
pressible from  our  ranks  shouted,  as  the  marching  line 
passed  within  touching  distance  of  the  prisoner  group. 
The  Germans  responded  only  with  quizzical  little  smiles 
and  silence. 

Escorted  by  our  own  military  bands,  the  regiments 
marched  through  the  main  street  of  the  village.  The 
bands  played  "Dixie" — a  new  air  to  France.  The  regi- 
ments as  a  whole  did  not  present  the  snappy,  marching 
appearance  that  they  might  have  presented.  There  was 
a  good  reason  for  this.  Sixty  per  cent,  of  them  were  re- 
cruits. It  had  been  wisely  decided  to  replace  many  of 
the  old  regular  army  men  in  the  ranks  with  newly  en- 
listed men,  so  that  these  old  veterans  could  remain  in 
America  and  train  the  new  drafts. 

However,  that  which  impressed  the  French  people  was 
the  individual  appearance  of  these  samples  of  American 
manhood.  Our  men  were  tall  and  broad  and  brawny. 
They  were  young  and  vigorous.  Their  eyes  were  keen 
and  snappy.  Their  complexions  ranged  in  shade  from 
the  swarthy  sun-tanned  cheeks  of  border  veterans  to  the 
clear  pink  skins  of  city  youngsters.  But  most  noticeable 
of  all  to  the  French  people  were  the  even  white  rows  of 
teeth  which  our  men  displayed  when  they  smiled.  Good 
dentistry  and  clean  mouths  are  essentially  American. 

The  villagers  of  St.  Nazaire,  old  men  and  women, 
girls  and  school  children,  lined  the  curbs  as  our  men 
marched  through  the  town.  The  line  of  march  was  over 
a  broad  esplanade  that  circled  the  sandy  beach  of  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  69 

bay,  and  then  wound  upward  into  the  higher  ground 
back  of  the  town.  The  road  here  was  bordered  on  either 
side  with  ancient  stone  walls  covered  with  vines  and 
over  the  tops  of  the  walls  there  extended  fruit-laden 
branches  to  tempt  our  men  with  their  ripe,  red  luscious- 
ness.  As  they  marched  through  the  heat  and  dust  of 
that  June  day,  many  succumbed  to  the  temptations  and 
paid  for  their  appetites  with  inordinately  violent  colics 
that  night. 

A  camp  site  had  been  partially  prepared  for  their  re- 
ception. It  was  located  close  to  a  French  barracks.  The 
French  soldiers  and  gangs  of  German  prisoners,  who  had 
been  engaged  in  this  work,  had  no  knowledge  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  building  the  first  American  canton- 
ment in  France.  They  thought  they  were  constructing 
simply  an  extension  of  the  French  encampment. 

That  first  contingent,  composed  of  United  States  In- 
fantrymen and  Marines,  made  its  first  camp  in  France 
with  the  smallest  amount  of  confusion,  considering  the 
fact  that  almost  three-quarters  of  them  hadn't  been  in 
uniform  a  month.  It  was  but  several  hours  after  ar- 
riving at  the  camp  that  the  smoke  was  rising  from  the 
busy  camp  stoves  and  the  aroma  of  American  coffee, 
baked  beans  and  broiled  steaks  was  in  the  air. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  first  day  some  of  the  men 
were  given  permission  to  visit  the  town.  They  began  to 
take  their  first  lessons  in  French  as  they  went  from  cafe 
to  cafe  in  futile  efforts  to  connect  up  with  such  unknown 
commodities  as  cherry  pie  or  ham  and  egg  sandwiches. 
Upon  meeting  one  another  in  the  streets,  our  men  would 
invariably  ask:  "Have  you  come  across  any  of  these 
frogs  that  talk  American?" 

There  was  nothing  disrespectful  about  the  terms  Frogs 
or  Froggies  as  applied  to  their  French  comrades  in  arms. 


70  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

American  officers  hastened  to  explain  to  French  officers 
that  the  one  piece  of  information  concerning  France  most 
popularly  known  in  America  was  that  it  was  the  place 
where  people  first  learned  to  eat  frog  legs  and  snails. 

The  Frenchmen,  on  the  other  hand,  were  somewhat 
inclined  to  believe  that  these  first  Americans  didn't  live 
up  to  the  European  expectations  of  Americans.  Those 
European  expectations  had  been  founded  almost  entirely 
upon  the  translations  of  dime  novels  and  moving  picture 
thrillers  of  the  Wild  West  and  comedy  variety. 

Although  our  men  wore  the  high,  broad-brimmed  felt 
hats,  they  didn't  seem  sufficiently  cowboyish.  Although 
the  French  people  waited  expectantly,  none  of  these 
Americans  dashed  through  the  main  street  of  the  village 
on  bucking  bronchos,  holding  their  reins  in  their  teeth 
and  at  the  same  time  firing  revolvers  from  either  hand. 
Moreover,  none  of  our  men  seemed  to  conclude  their 
dinners  in  the  expected  American  fashion  of  slapping 
one  another  in  the  face  with  custard  pies. 

There  was  to  be  seen  on  the  streets  of  St.  Nazaire  that 
day  some  representative  black  Americans,  who  had  also 
landed  in  that  historical  first  contingent.  There  was  a 
strange  thing  about  these  negroes. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  the  early  stages  of  our 
participation  in  the  war  it  had  been  found  that  there 
was  hardly  sufficient  khaki  cloth  to  provide  uniforms  for 
all  of  our  soldiers.  That  had  been  the  case  with  these 
American  negro  soldiers. 

But  somewhere  down  in  Washington,  somehow  or 
other,  some  one  resurrected  an  old,  large,  heavy  iron  key 
and  this,  inserted  into  an  ancient  rusty  lock,  had  opened 
some  long  forgotten  doors  in  one  of  the  Government 
arsenals.  There  were  revealed  old  dust-covered  bundles 
wrapped  up  in  newspapers,  yellow  with  age,  and  when 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT" 71 

these  wrappings  of  the  past  were  removed,  there  were 
seen  the  uniforms  of  old  Union  blue  that  had  been  laid 
away  back  in  '65 — uniforms  that  had  been  worn  by  men 
who  fought  and  bled  and  died  to  free  the  first  black 
American  citizens. 

And  here  on  this  foreign  shore,  on  this  day  in  June 
more  than  half  a  century  later,  the  sons  and  the  grand- 
sons of  those  same  freed  slaves  wore  those  same  uni- 
forms of  Union  blue  as  they  landed  in  France  to  fight 
for  a  newer  freedom. 

Some  of  these  negroes  were  stevedores  from  the  lower 
Mississippi  levees.  They  sang  as  they  worked  in  their 
white  army  undershirts,  across  the  chest  of  which  they 
had  penciled  in  blue  and  red,  strange  mystic  devices,  re- 
ligious phrases  and  hoodoo  signs,  calculated  to  contribute 
the  charm  of  safety  to  the  running  of  the  submarine 
blockade. 

Two  of  these  American  negroes,  walking  up  the  main 
street  of  St.  Nazaire,  saw  on  the  other  side  of  the  thor- 
oughfare a  brother  of  colour  wearing  the  lighter  blue 
uniform  of  a  French  soldier.  This  French  negro  was 
a  Colonial  black  from  the  north  of  Africa  and  of  course 
had  spoken  nothing  but  French  from  the  day  he  was  born. 

One  of  the  American  negroes  crossed  the  street  and 
accosted  him. 

"Looka  here,  boy,"  he  enquired  good-naturedly,  "what 
can  you  all  tell  me  about  this  here  wah?" 

"Comment,  monsieur?"  responded  the  non-understand- 
ing French  black,  and  followed  the  rejoinder  with  a  tor- 
rent of  excited   French. 

The  American  negro's  mouth  fell  open.  For  a  minute 
he  looked  startled,  and  then  he  bulged  one  large  round 
white  eye  suspiciously  at  the  French  black,  while  he  in- 
wardly debated  on  the  possibility  that  he  had  become 


72       "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

suddenly  colour  blind.  Having  reassured  himself,  how- 
ever, that  his  vision  was  not  at  fault,  he  made  a  sudden 
decision  and  started  on  a  new  tack. 

"Now,  never  mind  that  high-faluting  language,"  he 
said.  "You  all  just  tell  me  what  you  know  about  this 
here  wah  and  quit  you'  putting  on  aihs." 

The  puzzled  French  negro  could  only  reply  with  an- 
other explosion  of  French  interrogations,  coupled  with 
vigorous  gesticulations.  The  American  negro  tried  to 
talk  at  the  same  time  and  both  of  them  endeavouring 
to  make  the  other  understand,  increased  the  volumes  of 
their  tones  until  they  were  standing  there  waving  their 
arms  and  shouting  into  one  another's  faces.  The  Amer- 
ican negro  gave  it  up. 

"My  Gawd,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  as  he  recrossed 
the  street  and  joined  his  comrades,  "this  is  shore  some 
funny  country.  They  got  the  mos'  ignorantest  niggers 
I  ever  saw." 

Still,  those  American  blacks  were  not  alone  in  their 
difficulties  over  the  difference  in  languages.  I  discussed 
the  matter  with  one  of  our  white  regulars  who  professed 
great  experience,  having  spent  almost  one  entire  day  on 
mutual  guard  with  a  French  sentry  over  a  pile  of  bag- 
gage. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  don't  believe  these  Frenchics 
ever  will  learn  to  speak  English." 

Our  veterans  from  Mexico  and  the  border  campaigns 
found  that  their  smattering  of  Spanish  did  not  help  them 
much.  But  still  every  one  seemed  to  manage  to  get  along 
all  right.  Our  soldiers  and  the  French  soldiers  in  those 
early  days  couldn't  understand  each  other's  languages, 
but  they  could  understand  each  other. 

This  strange  paradox  was  analysed  for  me  by  a  young 
American  Lieutenant  who  said  he  had  made  a  twelve- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  73 

hour  study  of  the  remarkable  camaraderie  that  had  im- 
mediately sprung-  up  between  the  fighting-  men  of  France 
and  the  fighting  men  of  America.  In  explaining  this  re- 
lationship, he  said : 

"You  see,  we  think  the  French  are  crazy,"  he  said, 
"and  the  French  know  damn  well  we  are." 

Those  of  our  men  who  had  not  brought  small  French 
and  English  dictionaries  with  them,  made  hurried  pur- 
chases of  such  handy  articles  and  forthwith  began  to 
practise.     The  French  people  did  likewise. 

I  saw  one  young  American  infantryman  seated  at  a 
table  in  front  of  one  of  the  sidewalk  cafes  on  the  village 
square.  He  was  dividing  his  attention  between  a  fervent 
admiration  of  the  pretty  French  waitress,  who  stood 
smiling  in  front  of  him,  and  an  intense  interest  in  the 
pages  of  his  small  hand  dictionary. 

She  had  brought  his  glass  of  beer  and  he  had  paid  for 
it,  but  there  seemed  to  be  a  mutual  urge  for  further  con- 
versation. The  American  would  look  first  at  her  and 
then  he  would  look  through  the  pages  of  the  book  again. 
Finally  he  gave  slow  and  painful  enunciation  of  the  fol- 
lowing request : 

"Mad-am-moy-sell,  donnie  moy  oon  baysa." 

She  laughed  prettily  as  she  caught  his  meaning  almost 
immediately,  and  she  replied : 

"Doughboy,  ware  do  you  get  zat  stuff?" 

"Aw,  Hell,"  said  the  young  Infantryman,  as  he  closed 
the  book  with  a  snap.  "I  knew  they'd  let  those  sailors 
ashore  before  us." 

From  the  very  first  day  of  the  landing  we  began  to 
learn  things  from  the  French  and  they  began  to  learn 
things  from  us.  Some  of  our  men  learned  that  it  was 
quite  possible  to  sip  an  occasional  glass  of  beer  or  light 


74  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

wine  without  feeling  a  sudden  inclination  to  buy  and 
consume  all  there  remained  in  the  cafe. 

The  French  soldiers  were  intensely  interested  in  the 
equipment  of  our  land  forces  and  in  the  uniforms  of 
both  our  soldiers  and  sailors.  They  sought  by  questions 
to  get  an  understanding  of  the  various  insignia  by  which 
the  Americans  designated  their  rank. 

One  thing  that  they  noticed  was  a  small,  round  white 
pasteboard  tag  suspended  on  a  yellow  cord  from  the 
upper  left  hand  breast  pocket  of  either  the  blue  jackets 
of  our  sailors  or  the  khaki  shirts  of  our  soldiers.  So 
prevalent  was  this  tag,  which  in  reality  marked  the 
wearer  as  the  owner  of  a  package  of  popular  tobacco, 
that  the  French  almost  accepted  it  as  uniform  equipment. 

The  attitude  of  our  first  arriving  American  soldiers 
toward  the  German  prisoners  who  worked  in  gangs  on 
construction  work  in  the  camps  and  rough  labour  along 
the  docks  was  a  curious  one.  Not  having  yet  encoun- 
tered in  battle  the  brothers  of  these  same  docile  appear- 
ing captives,  our  men  were  even  inclined  to  treat  the 
prisoners  with  deference  almost  approaching  admiration. 

In  a  measure,  the  Germans  returned  this  feeling.  The 
arrival  of  the  Americans  was  really  cheering  to  them. 
The  prisoners  disliked  the  French  because  they  had  been 
taught  to  do  so  from  childhood.  They  hated  the  Eng- 
lish because  that  was  the  hate  with  which  they  went  into 
battle. 

It  sounds  incongruous  now  but,  nevertheless,  it  was 
a  fact  then  that  the  German  prisoners  confined  at  that  first 
American  sea-base  really  seemed  to  like  the  American 
soldiers.  Maybe  it  was  because  any  change  of  masters 
or  guards  was  a  relief  in  the  uneventful  existence  which 
had  been  theirs  since  the  day  of  their  capture.  Perhaps 
the  feeling  was  one  of  distinct  kindred,  based  on  a  fa- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  75 


miliarity  with  Americans  and  American  customs — a  fa- 
miliarity which  had  been  produced  by  thousands  of  let- 
ters which  Germans  in  America  had  written  to  their 
friends  in  Germany  before  the  war.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  may  simply  have  been  by  reason  of  America's  official 
disavowal  of  any  animosity  toward  the  German  people. 

One  day  I  watched  some  of  those  prisoners  unloading 
supplies  at  one  of  the  docks  in  St.  Nazaire,  more  or  less 
under  the  eyes  of  an  American  sentry  who  stood  nearby. 
One  group  of  four  Germans  were  engaged  in  carrying 
what  appeared  to  be  a  large  wooden  packing  case.  Cas- 
ually, and  as  if  by  accident,  the  case  was  dropped  to  the 
ground  and  cracked. 

Instantly  one  of  the  prisoners'  hands  began  to  fur- 
tively investigate  the  packages  revealed  by  the  break. 
The  other  prisoners  busied  themselves  as  if  preparing  to 
lift  the  box  again.  The  first  German  pulled  a  spoon  from 
his  bootleg,  plunged  it  into  the  crevice  in  the  broken  box 
and  withdrew  it  heaped  with  granulated  sugar.  With 
a  quick  movement  he  conveyed  the  stolen  sweet  to  his 
mouth  and  that  gapping  orifice  closed  quickly  on  the 
sugar,  while  his  stoical  face  immediately  assumed  its 
characteristic  downcast  look.  He  didn't  dare  move  his 
lips  or  jaws  for  fear  of  detection. 

Of  course  these  Germans  had  been  receiving  but  a 
scant  ration  of  sugar,  but  their  lot  had  been  no  worse 
than  that  of  the  French  soldiers  guarding  them  pre- 
viously, who  got  no  sugar  either.  American  soldiers 
then  guarding  those  prisoners  reported  only  a  few  of 
them  for  confinement  for  these  human  thefts. 

Surreptitiously,  the  American  guards  would  sometimes 
leave  cigarettes  where  the  prisoners  could  get  them,  and 
even  though  the  action  did  violate  the  rules  of  discipline, 
it  helped  to  develop  further  the  human  side  of  the  giver 


76  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  the  recipient  and  at  the  same  time  had  the  result  of 
making  the  prisoners  do  more  work  for  their  new 
guards. 

It  should  be  specially  stated  that  lenience  could  not 
and  was  not  extended  to  the  point  of  fraternisation.  But 
the  relationship  that  seemed  to  exist  between  the  Ger- 
man prisoners  and  American  soldiers  at  that  early  date 
revealed  undeniably  the  absence  of  any  mutual  hate. 

Around  one  packing  case  on  the  dock  I  saw,  one  day, 
a  number  of  German  prisoners  who  were  engaged  in  un- 
packing bundles  from  America,  and  passing  them  down 
a  line  of  waiting  hands  that  relayed  them  to  a  freight  car. 
One  of  the  Germans  leaning  over  the  case  straightened 
up  with  a  rumpled  newspaper  in  his  hand.  He  had  re- 
moved it  from  a  package.  A  look  of  indescribable  joy 
came  across  his  face. 

"Deutscher,  Deutscher,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  the 
Gothic  type.  The  paper  was  a  copy  of  the  New  York 
Staats-Zeitung. 

The  lot  of  those  prisoners  was  not  an  unhappy  one. 
To  me  it  seemed  very  doubtful  whether  even  a  small 
percentage  of  them  would  have  accepted  liberty  if  it 
carried  with  it  the  necessity  of  returning  to  German 
trenches. 

Those  men  knew  what  war  was.  They  had  crossed 
No  Man's  Land.  Now  they  were  far  back  from  the 
blazing  front  in  a  comparatively  peaceful  country  be- 
yond the  sound  of  the  guns.  If  their  lot  at  that  time  was 
to  be  characterised  as  "war,"  then  in  the  opinion  of 
those  Germans,  war  was  not  what  Sherman  said  it  was. 

Their  attitude  more  resembled  that  of  the  unkissed 
spinster  who  was  taken  captive  when  the  invading  army 
captured  the  town.     She  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  77 


the  surprised  commander  of  the  invaders  and  smilingly 
whispered,  "War  is  war." 

The  German  prison  camps  at  St.  Nazaire  were  in- 
spected by  General  Pershing  on  the  third  day  of  the 
American  landing  when  he,  with  his  staff,  arrived  from 
Paris.  The  General  and  his  party  arrived  early  in  the 
morning  in  a  pouring  rain.  The  American  commander- 
in-chief  then  held  the  rank  of  a  Major  General.  In  the 
harbour  was  the  flagship  of  Rear  Admiral  Gleaves. 

There  was  no  delay  over  the  niceties  of  etiquette  when 
the  question  arose  as  to  whether  the  Rear  Admiral  should 
call  on  the  Major  General  or  the  Major  General  should 
call  on  the  Rear  Admiral. 

The  Major  General  settled  the  subject  with  a  sentence. 
He  said,  "The  point  is  that  I  want  to  see  him,"  and  with 
no  further  ado  about  it  General  Pershing  and  his  staff 
visited  the  Admiral  on  his  flagship.  After  his  inspection 
of  our  first  contingent,  General  Pershing  said : 

"This  is  the  happiest  day  of  the  busy  days  which  I 
have  spent  in  France  preparing  for  the  arrival  of  the 
first  contingent.  To-day  I  have  seen  our  troops  safe  on 
French  soil,  landing  from  transports  that  were  guarded 
in  their  passage  overseas  by  the  resourceful  vigilance  of 
our  Navy. 

"Now,  our  task  as  soldiers  lies  before  us.  We  hope, 
with  the  aid  of  the  French  leaders  and  experts  who  have 
placed  all  the  results  of  their  experience  at  our  disposal, 
to  make  our  forces  worthy  in  skill  and  in  determination, 
to  fight  side  by  side  in  arms  with  the  armies  of  France." 


78         "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


CHAPTER  IV 

THROUGH   THE  SCHOOL  OF  WAR 

Clip  the  skyline  from  the  Blue  Ridge,  arch  it  over  with 
arboreal  vistas  from  the  forests  of  the  Oregon,  reflect 
the  two  in  the  placid  waters  of  the  Wisconsin — and  you 
will  have  some  conception  of  the  perfect  Eden  of  beauty 
in  which  the  first  contingent  of  the  American  Expedi- 
tionary Forces  trained  in  France. 

Beckoning  white  roads  curl  through  the  rolling  hills 
like  ribbons  of  dental  cream  squeezed  out  evenly  on  rich 
green  velour.  Chateaux,  pearl  white  centres  in  settings 
of  emerald  green,  push  their  turrets  and  bastions  above 
the  mossy  plush  of  the  mountain  side.  Lazy  little 
streams  silver  the  valleys  with  their  aimless  wanderings. 

It  was  a  peaceful  looking  garden  of  pastoral  delight 
that  United  States  soldiers  had  picked  out  for  their  mar- 
tial training  ground.  It  was  a  section  whose  physical 
appearance  was  untouched  by  the  three  years  of  red  riot 
and  roar  that  still  rumbled  away  just  a  few  miles  to  the 
north. 

The  training  area  was  located  in  the  Vosges,  in  east 
central  France.  By  train,  it  was  a  nine-hour  day  trip 
from  Paris.  It  was  located  about  an  hour's  motor  ride 
behind  the  front  lines,  which  at  that  time  were  close  to 
the  north  of  the  cities  of  Nancy  and  Toul. 

The  troops  were  billeted  in  a  string  of  small  villages 
that  comprised  one  side  of  the  letter  V.  French  troops 
and  instructing  officers  occupied  the  other  converging 
line  of  the  letter.  Between  the  two  lines  was  the  area  in 
which  our  men  trained.     Where  the  two  lines  converged 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT" 


79 


was  the  town  of  Gondercourt,  the  headquarters  of  Major 
General  Seibert,  the  Commander  of  the  first  American 
division  in  France. 

The  area  had  long-  since  been  stripped  of  male  civilian 
population  that  could  be  utilised  for  the  French  ranks. 
The  war  had  taken  the  men  and  the  boys,  but  had  left 
the  old  people  and  children  to  till  the  fields,  tend  the 
cattle,  prune  the  hedges  and  trim  the  roads. 

With  the  advent  of  our  troops,  the  restful  scene  began 
to  change.  Treeless  ridges  carpeted  with  just  enough 
green  to  veil  the  rocky  formation  of  the  ground  began  to 
break  out  with  a  superficial  rash  of  the  colour  of  fresh 
earth.  In  rows  and  circles,  by  angles  and  zigzags,  the 
training  trenches  began  to  take  form  daily  under  the  pick 
and  shovel  exercises  of  French  and  Americans  working 
side  by  side. 

Along  the  white  roads,  clay-coloured  rectangles  that 
moved  evenly,  like  brown  caravans,  represented  the 
marching  units  of  United  States  troops.  The  columns 
of  bluish-grey  that  passed  them  with  shorter,  quicker 
steps,  were  companies  of  those  tireless  Frenchmen,  who 
after  almost  three  years  of  the  front  line  real  thing,  now 
played  at  a  mimic  war  of  make-believe,  with  taller  and 
heavier  novitiates. 

Those  French  troops  were  Alpine  Chasseurs — the  fa- 
mous Blue  Devils.  They  wore  dark  blue  caps,  which 
resemble  tarn  o'shanters,  but  are  not.  They  were  proud 
of  the  distinction  which  their  uniform  gave  them.  They 
were  proud  of  their  great  fighting  records.  One  single 
battalion  of  them  boasted  that  of  the  twenty-six  officers 
who  led  it  into  the  first  fight  at  the  opening  of  the  war, 
only  four  of  them  existed. 

It  was  a  great  advantage  for  our  men  to  train  under 
such  instructors.     Correspondents  who  had  been  along 


80  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  fronts  before  America's  entry  into  the  war,  had  a 
great  respect  for  the  soldierly  capacity  of  these  same  fight- 
ing Frenchmen ;  not  only  these  sturdy  young  sons  of 
France  who  wore  the  uniform,  but  the  older  French  sol- 
diers— ranging  in  age  from  forty  to  fifty-five  years — 
who  had  been  away  to  the  fronts  since  the  very  beginning 
of  the  war. 

We  had  seen  them  many,  many  times.  Miles  upon 
miles  of  them,  in  the  motor  trucks  along  the  roads. 
Twenty  of  them  rode  in  each  truck.  They  sat  on  two 
side  benches  facing  the  centre  of  the  trucks.  They  were 
men  actually  bent  forward  from  the  weight  of  the  martial 
equipment  strapped  to  their  bodies.  They  seemed  to 
carry  inordinate  loads — knapsacks,  blanket  roll,  spare 
shoes,  haversacks,  gas  masks,  water  bottles,  ammunition 
belts,  grenade  aprons,  rifle,  bayonet  and  helmet. 

Many  of  them  were  very  old  men.  They  had  thick 
black  eyebrows  and  wore  long  black  beards.  They  were 
tired,  weary  men.  We  had  seen  them  in  the  camions, 
each  man  resting  his  head  on  the  shoulder  of  the  man 
seated  beside  him.  The  dust  of  the  journey  turned  their 
black  beards  grey.  On  the  front  seat  of  the  camion  a 
sleepless  one  handled  the  wheel,  while  beside  him  the 
relief  driver  slept  on  the  seat. 

Thus  they  had  been  seen,  mile  upon  mile  of  them, 
thousand  upon  thousand  of  them,  moving  ever  up  and 
down  those  roads  that  paralleled  the  six  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  of  front  from  Flanders  to  the  Alps — moving 
always.  Thus  they  had  been  seen  night  and  day,  winter 
and  summer,  for  more  than  three  long  years,  always 
trying  to  be  at  the  place  where  the  enemy  struck.  The 
world  knows  and  the  world  is  thankful  that  they  always 
were  there. 

It  was  under  such  veteran  instructors  as  these  that 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  81 

our  first  Americans  in  France  trained,  there,  in  the 
Vosges,  in  a  garden  spot  of  beauty,  in  the  province  that 
boasts  the  birthplace  of  Jeanne  d'Arc.  On  the  few  leave 
days,  many  of  our  men,  with  permission,  would  absent 
themselves  from  camp,  and  make  short  pilgrimages  over 
the  hills  to  the  little  town  of  Domremy  to  visit  the  house 
in  which  the  Maid  of  Orleans  was  born. 

Our  men  were  eager  to  learn.  I  observed  them  daily 
at  their  training  tasks.  One  day  when  they  had  pro- 
gressed as  far  as  the  use  of  the  New  French  automatic 
rifles,  I  visited  one  of  the  ranges  to  witness  the  firing. 

Just  under  the  crest  of  the  hill  was  a  row  of  rifle  pits, 
four  feet  deep  in  the  slaty  white  rock.  On  the  opposite 
hill,  across  the  marshy  hollow,  at  a  distance  of  two  hun- 
dred yards,  was  a  line  of  wooden  targets,  painted  white 
with  black  circles.  Poised  at  intervals  on  the  forward 
edge  of  the  pits  were  a  number  of  automatic  rifles  of  the 
type  used  by  the  French  army.  An  American  soldier 
and  a  French  soldier  attended  each  one,  the  former  in 
the  firing  position  and  the  latter  instructing. 

The  rear  bank  of  the  pits  was  lined  with  French  and 
American  officers.  The  order,  "Commence  firing,"  was 
given,  and  white  spurts  of  rock  dust  began  dancing  on 
the  opposite  hill,  while  splinters  began  to  fly  from  some 
of  the  wooden  targets. 

At  one  end  of  the  firing  trench  a  raw  American  re- 
cruit, who  admitted  that  he  had  never  handled  an  auto- 
matic rifle  before,  flushed  to  his  hat-brim  and  gritted  his 
teeth  viciously  as  his  shots,  registering  ten  feet  above 
the  targets,  brought  forth  laughter  and  exclamations 
from  the  French  soldiers  nearby.  He  rested  on  his  gun 
long  enough  to  ask  an  interpreter  what  the  Frenchmen 
were  talking  about. 


82  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"They  say,"  the  interpreter  replied,  "that  you  belong 
to  the  anti-aircraft  service." 

The  recruit  tightened  his  grip  on  his  rifle  and  lowered 
his  aim  with  better  results.  At  the  end  of  his  first  fifty 
shots  he  was  placing  one  in  three  on  the  target  and  the 
others  were  registering  close  in. 

"Bravo!"  came  from  a  group  of  French  officers  at  the 
other  end  of  the  trench,  where  another  American,  older 
in  the  service,  had  signalised  his  first  experiences  with  the 
new  firearm  by  landing  thirty  targets  out  of  thirty-four 
shots,  and  four  of  the  targets  were  bull's-eyes.  The 
French  instructors  complimented  him  on  the  excellence 
of  his  marksmanship,  considering  his  acknowledged  un- 
familiarity  with  the  weapon. 

Further  along  the  depression,  in  another  set  of  op- 
posing trenches  and  targets,  a  row  of  French  machine 
guns  manned  by  young  Americans,  sprayed  lead  with 
ear-splitting  abandon,  sometimes  reaching  the  rate  of  five 
hundred  shots  a  minute.  Even  with  such  rapidity,  the 
Americans  encountered  no  difficulties  with  the  new  pieces. 

French  veterans,  who  for  three  years  had  been  using 
those  same  guns  against  German  targets,  hovered  over 
each  piece,  explaining  in  half  French  and  half  English, 
and  answering  in  the  same  mixture  questions  on  ways 
and  means  of  getting  the  best  results  from  the  weapons. 

Here  a  chasseur  of  the  ranks  would  stop  the  firing  of 
one  American  squad,  with  a  peremptory,  "Regardez." 
He  would  proceed  with  pantomime  and  more  or  less  con- 
nected words,  carrying  the  warning  that  firing  in  such  a 
manner  would  result  in  jamming  the  guns,  a  condition 
which  would  be  fatal  in  case  the  targets  in  the  other 
trenches  were  charging  upon  the  guns. 

Then  he  showed  the  correct  procedure,  and  the  Yanks, 
watchfully  alert  to  his  every  move,  changed  their  method 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  83 

and  signified  their  pleasure  with  the  expression  of  "Trays 
beans,"  and  "Mercy's." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  have  resulted  in  a  quicker  and 
possibly  more  understanding  training  if  these  Americans 
were  instructed  by  British  veterans  instead  of  French?" 
I  asked  an  American  Staff  Officer,  who  was  observing 
the  demonstration. 

"I  may  have  thought  so  at  first,"  the  officer  replied, 
"but  not  now.  The  explanations  which  our  men  in  the 
ranks  are  receiving  from  the  French  soldiers  in  the  ranks 
are  more  than  word  instructions.  They  are  object  les- 
sons in  which  gesticulation  and  pantomime  are  used  to 
act  out  the  movement  or  subject  under  discussion. 

"The  French  are  great  actors,  and  I  find  that  Ameri- 
can soldiers  unacquainted  with  the  French  language  are 
able  to  understand  the  French  soldiers  who  are  unac- 
quainted with  the  English  language  much  better  than 
the  American  officers,  similarly  handicapped,  can  under- 
stand the  French  officers. 

"I  should  say  that  some  time  would  be  lost  if  all  of 
our  troops  were  to  be  trained  by  French  soldiers,  but  I 
believe  that  this  division  under  French  tutelage  will  be 
better  able  to  teach  the  new  tactics  to  the  new  divisions 
that  are  to  follow  than  it  would  be  if  it  had  speedily 
passpd  through  training  camps  like  the  British  system, 
for  instance,  where  it  must  be  taken  for  granted  that 
verbal,  instead  of  actual,  instruction  is  the  means  of  pro- 
ducing a  speeding  up  of  training." 

Thus  it  was  that  our  first  American  contingent  in 
France  was  in  training  for  something  more  than  service 
on  the  line.  It  rapidly  qualified  into  an  expert  corps 
from  which  large  numbers  of  capable  American  in- 
structors were  later  withdrawn  and  used  for  the  training 
of  our  millions  of  men  that  followed. 


84  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

This  achievement  was  only  accomplished  by  the  exer- 
cise of  strict  disciplinarian  measures  by  every  American 
officer  in  the  then  small  expedition.  One  day,  in  the  early 
part  of  August,  19 ij,  a  whirlwind  swept  through  the 
string  of  French  villages  where  the  first  contingent  was 
training. 

The  whirlwind  came  down  the  main  road  in  a  cloud  of 
dust.  It  sped  on  the  fleeting  tires  of  a  high-powered 
motor  which  flew  from  its  dust-grey  hood  a  red  flag 
with  two  white  stars.  It  blew  into  the  villages  and  out, 
through  the  billets  and  cook  tents,  mess  halls,  and  picket 
lines.     The  whirlwind  was  John  J.  Pershing. 

The  commander-in-chief  "hit"  the  training  area  early 
in  the  morning  and  his  coming  was  unannounced.  Be- 
fore evening  he  had  completed  a  stern  inspection  which 
had  left  only  one  impression  in  the  minds  of  the  in- 
spected, and  that  impression  was  to  the  effect  that  more 
snap  and  pep,  more  sharpness  and  keenness  were  needed. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  inspection  all  of  the  officers 
of  the  contingent  were  agreeing  that  the  whirlwind  visi- 
tation was  just  what  had  been  needed  to  arouse  the  mettle 
and  spirit  in  an  organisation  comprised  of  over  fifty  per 
cent,  raw  recruits.  Many  of  the  officers  themselves  had 
been  included  in  the  pointed  criticisms  which  the  com- 
mander directed  against  the  persons  and  things  that  met 
disfavour  in  his  eyes. 

The  night  following  that  inspection  or  "raid,"  as  it 
was  called,  it  would  have  been  safe  to  say  that  nowhere 
in  the  area  was  there  a  recruit  who  did  not  know,  in  a 
manner  that  he  would  not  forget,  the  correct  position  of 
a  soldier — the  precise,  stiff,  snappy  attitude  to  be  pre- 
sented when  called  to  attention.  The  enlisted  men  whose 
heels  did  not  click  when  they  met,  whose  shoulders 
slouched,  whose  chins  missed  the  proper  angle,  whose 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  85 

eyes  were  not  "front"  during  the  inspection,  underwent 
embarrassing  penalties,  calculated  to  make  them  remem- 
ber. 

"Have  this  man  fall  out,"  General  Pershing  directed, 
as  he  stood  before  a  recruit  whose  attitude  appeared 
sloppy;  "teach  him  the  position  of  a  soldier  and  have 
him  stand  at  attention  for  five  minutes." 

One  company  which  had  prided  itself  upon  having 
some  of  the  best  embryonic  bomb-throwers  in  the  con- 
tingent, contributed  a  number  of  victims  to  the  above 
penalties,  and  as  the  General's  train  of  automobiles 
swirled  out  of  the  village,  the  main  street  seemed  to  be 
dotted  with  silent  khaki-clad  statues  doing  their  five  min- 
ute sentences  of  rigidity. 

"What  about  your  men's  shoes?"  General  Pershing 
asked  a  captain  sharply,  while  he  directed  his  eyes  along 
a  company  line  of  feet  whose  casings  seemed  to  be  ap- 
proaching the  shabby. 

"We  need  hobnails,  sir,"  replied  the  captain. 

"Get  them'' — the  words  snapped  out  from  beneath 
Pershing's  close-cropped  grey  moustache.  "Requisition 
hobnails.  Your  men  need  them.  Get  them  from  the 
quartermaster." 

The  American  commander  stepped  into  the  darkness 
of  a  large  stone-walled  stable,  which  represented  the 
billeting  accommodations  for  ten  American  soldiers.  A 
dog  curled  in  the  doorway  growled  and  showed  its  teeth. 
The  General  stepped  past  the  menacing  animal,  and  with- 
out heeding  its  snarls  close  to  his  heels,  started  question- 
ing the  sergeants  in  charge. 

"Are  any  cattle  kept  in  here?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  sergeant. 

"Detail  more  men  with  brooms  and  have  it  aired  thor- 
oughly every  day." 


86  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Observed  from  a  distance,  when  he  was  speaking  with 
battalion  and  regimental  commanders,  the  commander 
manifested  no  change  of  attitude  from  that  which  marked 
his  whole  inspection.  He  frequently  employed  his  char- 
acteristic gesture  of  emphasis — the  wadding  of  his  left 
palm  with  his  right  fist  or  the  energetic  opening  and 
closing  of  the  right  hand.  When  the  Pershing  whirlwind 
sped  out  of  the  training  area  that  night,  after  the  first 
American  inspection  in  France,  it  left  behind  it  a  thor- 
ough realisation  of  the  sternness  of  the  work  which  was 
ahead  of  our  army. 

The  development  of  a  rigid  discipline  was  the  Amer- 
ican commander's  first  objective  in  the  training  schedules 
which  he  ordered  his  staff  to  devise.  After  this  schedule 
had  been  in  operation  not  ten  days,  I  happened  to  witness 
a  demonstration  of  American  discipline  which  might  be 
compared  to  an  improved  incident  of  Damocles  dining 
under  the  suspended  sword  at  the  feast  of  Dionysius. 

A  battalion  of  American  Infantry  was  at  practice  on 
one  of  the  training  fields.  The  grenade-throwing  exer- 
cises had  been  concluded  and  the  order  had  been  given  to 
"fall  in"  preparatory  to  the  march  back  to  the  camp. 

Upon  the  formation  of  the  long  company  lines,  end 
on  end  down  the  side  of  the  hill,  the  order,  "attention," 
was  sharply  shouted  bringing  the  men  to  the  rigid  pose 
which  permits  the  eyes  to  wander  neither  to  the  right  nor 
to  the  left,  above  nor  below,  but  straightforward. 

As  the  thousand  men  stood  there,  rigid  and  silent,  a 
sudden  disturbance  took  place  in  the  sky  above  them. 
Shells  began  exploding  up  there.  At  the  same  time  the 
men  in  the  ranks  could  distinctly  hear  the  whirr  and  the 
hum  of  aeroplane  motors  above  them. 

Almost  every  day  reports  had  been  received  that  Ger- 
man planes  had  evaded  the  Allied  aerial  patrols  along 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  87 

the  front  and  had  made  long  flights  behind  our  lines  for 
the  dual  purposes  of  observing  and  bombing. 

As  the  American  battalion  stood  stiff  and  motionless, 
I  knew  that  the  thought  was  passing  through  the  minds 
of  every  man  there  that  here,  at  last,  was  the  expected 
visitation  of  the  German  flyers  and  that  a  terrific  bomb 
from  above  would  be  the  next  event  on  the  programme. 
The  men  recognised  the  reports  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns 
blazing  away,  and  the  sound  of  the  motors  suggested  a 
close  range  target. 

The  sound  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  planes  were 
flying  low.  The  American  ranks  knew  that  something 
was  going  on  immediately  above  them.  They  did  not 
know  what  it  was,  but  it  seems  needless  to  state  that  they 
wanted  to  know.  Still  the  ranks  stood  as  stiff  as  rows 
of  clay-coloured  statues. 

An  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  look  upward,  a  strong 
instinctive  urging  to  see  the  danger  that  impended,  and 
the  stern  regulations  of  "eyes  front"  that  goes  with  the 
command  "attention,"  comprised  the  elements  of  con- 
flict that  went  on  in  each  of  the  thousand  heads  in  that 
battalion  line. 

In  front  of  each  platoon,  the  lieutenants  and  captains 
stood  with  the  same  rigid  eyes  front  facing  the  men.  If 
one  of  the  company  officers  had  relaxed  to  the  extent 
of  taking  one  fleeting  upward  glance,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  the  men  could  have  further  resisted  the  same 
inclination,  but  not  a  man  shifted  his  gaze  from  the 
direction  prescribed  by  the  last  command. 

One  plane  passed  closely  overhead  and  nothing  hap- 
pened. Three  more  followed  and  still  no  bombs  fell,  and 
then  the  tense  incident  was  closed  by  the  calling  out  of 
the  order  of  the  march  and,  in  squads  of  four,  the  bat- 
talion wheeled  into  the  road  and  marched  back  to  billets. 


88  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

As  one  company  went  by  singing  (talking  was  per- 
mitted upon  the  freedom  of  routstep),  I  heard  one  of 
the  men  say  that  he  had  thought  all  along  that  the  officers 
would  not  have  made  them  stand  there  at  attention  if 
the  danger  had  not  been  over. 

"As  far  as  I  knew,  it  was  over,"  a  comrade  added. 
"It  was  right  over  my  head."  And  in  this  light  man- 
ner the  men  forgot  the  incident  as  they  resumed  their 
marching  song. 

When  Mr.  W.  Hollenzollern  of  Potsdam  put  singing 
lessons  in  the  curriculum  of  his  soldiers'  training,  a 
tremor  of  military  giggling  was  heard  around  the  world. 
But  in  August,  1914,  when  Mars  smiled  at  the  sight  of 
those  same  soldiers,  marching  across  the  frontiers  east, 
south  and  west,  under  their  throaty  barrage  of  "Deutsch- 
land,  Deutschland,  Uber  Alles,"  the  derisive  giggles  com- 
pletely died  out.  It  immediately  became  a  case  of  he 
who  laughs  first,  lives  to  yodel. 

The  American  forces  then  in  training  took  advantage 
of  this.  They  not  only  began  to  sing  as  they  trained, 
but  they  actually  began  to  be  trained  to  sing.  Numerous 
company  commanders  who  had  held  strong  opinions 
against  this  vocal  soldiering,  changed  their  minds  and 
expressed  the  new  found  conviction  that  the  day  was 
past  when  singing  armies  could  be  compared  solely  with 
male  coryphees  who  hold  positions  well  down  stage  and 
clink  empty  flagons  of  brown  October  ale. 

"It's  a  great  idea,"  a  company  commander  told  me. 
"We  learned  it  from  the  Blue  Devils.  They  are  the 
toughest  set  of  under-sized  gentry  that  I  have  run  into 
in  France.  They  have  forearms  as  big  as  three-inch 
shells,  and  as  hard.  Their  favourite  pastime  is  juggling 
hand-grenades  that  can't  possibly  explode  unless  they 
just  lightly  touch  one  another. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  89 

"Yesterday  we  watched  them,  bared  to  the  waist,  as 
they  went  through  three  hours  of  grenade  and  bombir 
practice  that  was  the  last  word  in  strenuosity.  Keeping 
up  with  their  exercises  was  hard  work  for  our  men. 
whose  arms  soon  began  to  ache  from  the  unaccustomed, 
overhand  heaving. 

"Then  we  watched  them  as  their  commander  assembled 
them  for  the  march  back  to  the  village.  x-\t  the  com- 
mand, 'attention,'  their  heels  clicked,  their  heads  went 
back,  their  chins  up  and  their  right  hands  were  pasted 
rigidly  against  their  right  trouser  leg. 

"At  the  command  'march'  all  of  them  started  off, 
punctuating  their  first  step  with  the  first  word  of  their 
marching  song.  It  was  not  any  sickly  chorus  either. 
There  was  plenty  of  beef  and  lung  power  behind  every 
note.  My  men  lined  up  opposite  were  not  missing  a  bit 
of  it.  Most  of  them  seemed  to  know  what  was  ex- 
pected when  I  said : 

"  'On  the  command  of  "march,"  the  company  will  be- 
gin to  sing,  keeping  step  with  the  song.  The  first  ser- 
geant will  announce  the  song.' 

"My  first  sergeant  responded  without  a  change  of 
colour  as  if  the  command  to  sing  had  been  an  old  regu- 
lation. I  knew  that  he  was  puzzled,  but  he  did  it  well. 
The  name  of  the  song  chosen  was  passed  down  the  line 
from  man  to  man. 

"When  I  gave  the  command  to  march,  the  company, 
almost  half  of  them  new  recruits,  wheeled  in  squads  of 
fours,  and  started  off  down  the  road  singing,  'Hail,  Hail, 
the  Gang's  All  Here.'  There  were  some  who  were  kind 
of  weak  on  the  effort,  but  there  was  a  noticeable  cres- 
cendo when  the  sergeant  passed  the  word  down  the  squad 
that  the  company  would  be  kept  marching  until  every- 
body had  joined  in  the  singing. 


go  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"We  swung  into  camp  that  night  with  every  voice 
raising  lustily  on  'One  Grasshopper  Hopped  Right  Over 
Another  Grasshopper's  Back,'  and  after  dinner  the  billets 
just  sprouted  melody,  everything  from  ragtime  to  Christ- 
mas carols  and  baby  lullabies." 

One  noticeable  characteristic  about  our  soldiers  during 
that  training  period  before  they  had  come  in  contact  with 
the  enemy,  wras  a  total  absence  of  violent  antipathy  to- 
ward all  persons  and  things  Teutonic. 

On  the  march  the  men  then  sang  "We'll  Hang  the 
Damned  Old  Kaiser  to  a  Sour  Apple  Tree,"  but  at  that 
time  I  never  heard  any  parodies  on  the  "Gott  Straffe 
Germany"  theme.  Our  soldiers  were  of  so  many  dif- 
ferent nationalistic  extractions  and  they  had  been  thrown 
together  for  so  short  a  time,  that  as  yet  no  especial  ha- 
tred of  the  enemy  had  developed. 

An  illustration  of  this  very  subject  and  also  the  man- 
ner in  which. our  boys  got  along  with  the  civilian  popu- 
lations of  the  towns  they  occupied  came  to  my  notice. 

A  driving  rain  which  filled  the  valley  with  mist  and 
made  the  hills  look  like  mountain  tops  projecting  above 
the  clouds,  had  resulted  in  the  abandonment  of  the  usual 
daily  drills.  The  men  had  spent  the  day  in  billets  writing 
letters  home,  hearing  indoor  lectures  from  instructors, 
playing  with  the  French  children  in  the  cottage  door- 
ways, or  taking  lessons  in  French  from  the  peasant  girls, 
whose  eyes  were  inspirations  to  the  dullest  pupils. 

I  spent  several  hours  in  a  company  commander's  quar- 
ters while  he  censored  letters  which  the  men  had  sub- 
mitted for  transmission  back  home.  The  Captain  looked 
long  at  a  letter  in  his  hand,  smiled  and  called  for  his 
orderly. 

"Tell  Private  Blank  I  want  to  see  him  here  right 
away,"  were  the  Captain's  instructions.     Blank's  name 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  91 

was  not  quite  so  German  as  Sourkraut,  but  it  had  a 
"berger"  ending  that  was  reminiscent  of  beer,  pretzels 
and  wooden  shoes. 

"Here's  a  letter  written  in  German,"  said  the  Captain 
to  me,  referring  to  the  open  missive.  "It's  addressed  to 
somebody  by  the  same  name  as  Blank,  and  I  presume 
it  is  to  some  one  in  his  family.  Blank  is  one  of  the 
best  men  in  my  company,  and  I  know  that  the  letter  is 
harmless,  but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  pass  it  when 
written  in  an  enemy  language." 

The  door  opened  and  a  tall,  blonde  enlisted  man 
stepped  in,  shaking  the  rain  from  his  hat.  He  stood  at 
respectful  attention,    saluted  and   said : 

"Did  the  Captain  wish  to  see  me?" 

"Yes,  Blank,  it  is  about  this  letter  written  in  Ger- 
man," the  Captain  replied.     "Who  is  it  addressed  to?" 

"My  father,  in  Cincinnati,  sir,"  Blank  replied. 

"I  am  unfamiliar  with  German,"  the  Captain  said.  "I 
notice  the  letter  is  brief.  Is  there  anything  in  it  which 
the  company  has  been  ordered  to  omit  mentioning?" 

"No,  sir,'"  Blank  replied. 

"Will  you  translate  it  for  me?"  the  Captain  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Blank,  with  just  a  bare  suggestion  of  a 
blush.    Then  he  read  as  follows : 

"Dear  Father:  I  am  in  good  health.  Food  is  good 
and  we  are  learning  much.  I  am  becoming  an  expert 
grenadier.  In  this  village  where  we  are  billeted  there 
is  a  French  girl  named  Germain.  Before  the  war  she 
lived  in  northern  France,  near  the  German  frontier,  and 
she  speaks  German.  So  it  is  possible  for  us  to  talk 
together.  She  fled  before  the  German  troops  reached 
her  village.     She  lives  here  now  with  her  aunt. 

"I  carry  water  from  a  well  for  her  and  she  has  given 


92  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

me  each  day  a  roll  of  fresh  made  butter  for  our  mess. 
In  the  evening  we  sit  on  the  front  seat  of  her  uncle's 
small  carriage,  which  is  in  the  front  yard,  and  we  imagine 
we  are  taking  a  drive,  but  of  course  there  are  no  horses. 
Her  uncle's  horses  were  taken  by  the  army  a  long  time 
ago.  She  is  very  anxious  to  know  all  about  America, 
and  I  have  told  her  all  about  you  and  mother  and  our 
home  in  Cincinnati. 

"She  asked  me  what  I  am  going  to  do  after  the  war, 
and  I  told  her  that  I  would  return  to  Cincinnati  to  help 
you  at  the  store.  She  cried  because  she  said  she  did  not 
know  where  she  was  going  after  the  war.  Her  father 
and  two  brothers  have  been  killed  and  her  aunt  and 
uncle  are  very  old. 

"I  have  some  more  to  write  to  you  about  Germain 
later.  But  must  stop  here  because  the  Sergeants  are  as- 
sembling the  men  for  indoor  instruction.  Love  to  all. 
It  is  raining  very  hard.     Your  son,  " 

Blank's  face  seemed  to  redden  as  he  hesitated  over  a 
postscript  line  at  the  bottom  of  the  page. 

"This  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "I  just  asked  father  to 
ask  mother  to  send  me  one  of  the  photographs  I  had 
taken  on  the  day  I  enlisted." 

"For  Germain?"  the  Captain  enquired,  smilingly. 

"Yes,  sir,"   replied  Blank. 

"Why  didn't  you  write  this  in  English?"  the  Captain 
asked. 

"My  father  reads  only  German,"  Blank  replied. 

Blank  was  instructed  to  rewrite  his  letter  in  English 
and  address  it  to  some  friend  who  could  translate  it  into 
German  for  his  father.  As  the  door  closed  on  this 
American  soldier  of  German  extraction,  I  asked  the  Cap- 
tain, "Do  you  think  Germain  could  stand  for  Blank's 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  93 


German  name,  after  all  she  has  lost  at  the  hands  of  the 
Germans?" 

"She'll  probably  be  wearing  it  proudly  around  Cin- 
cinnati within  a  vear  after  the  war  is  over,"  the  Captain 
replied. 

It  might  be  reassuring  at  this  point  to  remark  that 
girls  in  America  really  have  no  occasion  to  fear  that 
many  of  our  soldiers  will  leave  their  hearts  in  France. 
The  French  women  are  kind  to  them,  help  them  in  their 
French  lessons,  and  frequently  feed  them  with  home 
delicacies  unknown  to  the  company  mess  stoves,  but 
every  American  soldier  overseas  seems  to  have  that  per- 
fectly natural  hankering  to  come  back  to  the  girls  he 
left  behind. 

The  soldier  mail  addressed  daily  to  mothers  and  sweet- 
hearts back  in  the  States  ran  far  into  the  tons.  The 
men  were  really  homesick  for  their  American  women 
folks.  I  was  aware  of  this  even  before  I  witnessed  the 
reception  given  by  our  men  to  the  first  American  nurses 
to  reach  the  other  side. 

The  hospital  unit  to  which  they  belonged  had  been 
transported  into  that  training  area  so  quickly  and  so 
secretly  that  its  presence  there  was  unknown  for  some 
time.     I  happened  to  locate  it  by  chance. 

Several  of  us  correspondents  seeking  a  change  of  diet 
from  the  monotonous  menu  provided  by  the  hard-work- 
ing madam  of  our  modest  hostelry,  motored  in  a  new  di- 
rection, over  roads  that  opened  new  vistas  in  this  pic- 
ture book  of  the  world. 

Long  straight  avenues  of  towering  trees  whose  foliage 
roofed  the  roadways  were  sufficient  to  reanimate  recol- 
lections of  old  masters  of  brush  realism.  Ploughed  fields 
veiled  with  the  low-hanging  mist  of  evening  time,  and 
distant  steeples  of  homely  simplicity   faintly  glazed  by 


94  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  reproduced  the  tones  of 
"The  Angelus"  with  the  over-generous  hugeness  of  na- 
ture. 

And  there  in  that  prettiest  of  French  watering  places 
— Vittel — we  came  upon  those  first  American  nurses  at- 
tached to  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces.  They 
told  us  that  all  they  knew  was  the  name  of  the  place 
they  were  in,  that  they  were  without  maps  and  were 
not  even  aware  of  what  part  of  France  they  were  lo- 
cated in. 

It  developed  that  the  unit's  motor  transportation  had 
not  arrived  and,  other  automobiles  being  as  scarce  as 
German  flags,  communication  with  the  nearby  camps  had 
been  almost  non-existent.  Orders  had  been  received 
from  field  headquarters  and  acknowledged,  but  its  rela- 
tion in  distance  or  direction  to  their  whereabouts  were 
shrouded  in  mystery.     But  not  for  long. 

Soon  the  word  spread  through  the  training  area  that 
American  nurses  had  a  hospital  in  the  same  zone  and 
some  of  the  homesick  Yanks  began  to  make  threats  of 
self -mutilation  in  order  that  they  might  be  sent  to  that 
hospital. 

The  hospital  unit  was  soon  followed  by  the  arrival  of 
numerous  American  auxiliary  organisations  and  the 
kindly  activities  of  the  workers  as  well  as  their  numbers 
became  such  as  to  cause  the  men  to  wonder  what  kind 
of  a  war  they  were  in. 

I  happened  to  meet  an  old  top  sergeant  of  the  regular 
army,  a  man  I  had  known  in  Mexico,  with  the  American 
Punitive  Expedition.  He  had  just  received  a  large  bun- 
dle of  newspapers  from  home  and  he  was  bringing  him- 
self up-to-date  on  the  news.  I  asked  him  what  was 
happening  back  home. 

"Great  things  are  going  on  in  the  States,"  he  said. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  95 

looking  up  from  his  papers.  "Here's  one  story  in  the 
newspaper  that  says  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  sending  over  five 
hundred  secretaries  to  tell  us  jokes  and  funny  stories. 
And  here's  another  account  about  the  Red  Cross  donating 
half  a  million  dollars  to  build  recreation  booths  for  us 
along  the  front.  And  here's  a  story  about  a  New  York 
actor  getting  a  committee  of  entertainers  together  to 
come  over  and  sing  and  dance  for  us.  And  down  in 
Philadelphia  they're  talking  about  collecting  a  million 
dollars  to  build  tabernacles  along  the  front  so's  Billy 
Sunday  can  preach  to  us.  What  I'm  wondering  about 
is,  when  in  hell  they're  going  to  send  the  army  over." 

But  that  was  in  the  early  fall  of  19 17,  and  as  I  write 
these  lines  now,  in  the  last  days  of  1918,  I  am  aware 
and  so  is  the  world,  that  in  all  of  France  nobody  will 
ever  ask  that  question  again. 

That  army  got  there. 


96 "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

CHAPTER  V 

MAKING   THE    MEN    WHO    MAN    THE   GUNS 

While  our  infantry  perfected  their  training  in  the 
Vosges,  the  first  American  artillery  in  France  undertook 
a  schedule  of  studies  in  an  old  French  artillery  post  lo- 
cated near  the  Swiss  frontier.  This  place  is  called  Val- 
dahon,  and  for  scores  of  years  had  been  one  of  the  train- 
ing places  for  French  artillery.  But  during  the  third 
and  fourth  years  of  the  war  nearly  all  of  the  French  ar- 
tillery units  being  on  the  front,  all  subsequent  drafts  of 
French  artillerymen  received  their  training  under  actual 
war  conditions. 

So  it  was  that  the  French  war  department  turned  over 
to  the  Americans  this  artillery  training  ground  which 
had  been  long  vacant.  Three  American  artillery  regi- 
ments, the  Fifth,  Sixth  and  Seventh,  comprising  the  first 
U.  S.  Artillery  Brigade,  began  training  at  this  post. 

The  barracks  had  been  long  unoccupied  and  much 
preparatory  work  was  necessary  before  our  artillerymen 
could  move  in.  Much  of  this  work  devolved  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  Brigade  Quartermaster. 

The  first  difficulty  that  he  encountered  was  the  mat- 
ter of  illumination  for  the  barracks,  mess  halls  and 
lecture  rooms.  All  of  the  buildings  were  wired,  but 
there  was  no  current.  The  Quartermaster  began  an  in- 
vestigation and  this  was  what  he  found : 

The  post  had  been  supplied  with  electricity  from  a 
generating  plant  located  on  a  river  about  ten  miles  away. 
This  plant  had  supplied  electrical  energy  for  fifteen 
small  French  towns  located  in  the  vicinity.     The  plant 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  97 

was  owned  and  operated  by  a  Frenchman,  who  was 
about  forty  years  old.  The  French  Government,  real- 
ising the  necessity  for  illumination,  had  exempted  this 
man  from  military  service,  so  that  he  remained  at  his 
plant  and  kept  the  same  in  operation  for  the  benefit  of 
the  camp  at  Valdahon  and  the  fifteen  small  towns  nearby. 

Then  the  gossips  of  the  countryside  got  busy.  These 
people  began  to  say  that  Monsieur  X,  the  operator  of  the 
plant,  was  not  patriotic,  in  other  words,  that  he  was  a 
slacker  for  not  being  at  the  front  when  all  of  their 
menfolk  had  been  sent  away  to  the  war. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Monsieur  X  was  not  a 
slacker,  and  his  inclination  had  always  been  to  get  into 
the  fight  with  the  Germans,  but  the  Government  had  rep- 
resented to  him  that  it  was  his  greater  duty  to  remain 
and  keep  his  plant  in  operation  to  provide  light  for  the 
countryside. 

When  the  talk  of  the  countryside  reached  Monsieur 
X's  ears,  he  being  a  country-loving  Frenchman  was  in- 
furiated. He  denounced  the  gossips  as  being  unappre- 
ciative  of  the  great  sacrifice  he  had  been  making  for  their 
benefit,  and,  to  make  them  realise  it,  he  decided  on  pen- 
alising them. 

Monsieur  X  simply  closed  down  his  plant,  locked  and 
barred  the  doors  and  windows,  donned  his  French  uni- 
form and  went  away  to  the  front  to  join  his  old  regi- 
ment. That  night  those  villagers  in  the  fifteen  nearby 
towns,  who  had  been  using  electrical  illumination,  went 
to  bed  in  the  dark. 

It  required  considerable  research  on  the  part  of  the 
Artillery  Quartermaster  to  reveal  all  these  facts.  The 
electric  lights  had  been  unused  for  fifteen  months  when 
he  arrived  there,  and  he  started  to  see  what  he  could 
do  to  put  the  plant  back  to  work.     It  required  nothing 


98  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

less  finally  than  a  special  action  by  the  French  Minister 
of  War  whereby  orders  were  received  by  Monsieur  X 
commanding  him  to  leave  his  regiment  at  the  front  and 
go  back  to  his  plant  by  the  riverside  and  start  making 
electricity  again. 

With  the  lights  on  and  water  piped  in  for  bathing 
facilities,  and  extensive  arrangements  made  for  the  in- 
stalment of  stoves  and  other  heating  apparatus,  the  pur- 
chase of  wood  fuel  and  fodder  for  the  animals,  the 
Brigade  moved  in  and  occupied  the  camp. 

The  American  officer  in  command  of  that  post  went 
there  as  a  Brigadier  General.  As  I  observed  him  at  his 
work  in  those  early  days,  I  seemed  to  see  in  his  appear- 
ance and  disposition  some  of  the  characteristics  of  a 
Grant.  He  wore  a  stubby-pointed  beard  and  he  clamped 
his  teeth  tight  on  the  butt  end  of  a  cigar.  I  saw  him 
frequently  wearing  the  $11.50  regulation  issue  uniform 
of  the  enlisted  men.  I  saw  him  frequently  in  rubber 
boots  standing  hip  deep  in  the  mud  of  the  gun  pits, 
talking  to  the  men  like  a  father — a  kindly,  yet  stern 
father  who  knew  how  to  produce  discipline  and  re- 
sults. 

While  at  the  post,  he  won  promotion  to  a  Major 
General's  rank,  and  in  less  than  six  months  he  was  ele- 
vated to  the  grade  of  a  full  General  and  was  given  the 
highest  ranking  military  post  in  the  United  States.  That 
man  who  trained  our  first  artillerymen  in  France  was 
General  Peyton  C.  March,  Chief  of  Staff  of  the  United 
States  Army. 

Finding  the  right  man  for  the  right  place  was  one  of 
General  March's  hobbies.  He  believed  in  military  mobi- 
lisation based  on  occupational  qualifications.  In  other 
words,  he  believed  that  a  man  who  had  been  a  telephone 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  99 

operator  in  civilian  life  would  make  a  better  telephone 
operator  in  the  army  than  he  would  make  a  gunner. 

I  was  not  surpised  to  find  that  this  same  worthy  idea 
had  permeated  in  a  more  or  less  similar  form  down  to 
the  lowest  ranks  in  General  March's  command  at  that 
time.  I  encountered  it  one  cold  night  in  October,  when 
I  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  barrack  rooms  talking  with 
a  man  in  the  ranks. 

That  man's  name  was  Budd  English.  I  met  him 
first  in  Mexico  on  the  American  Punitive  Expedition, 
where  he  had  driven  an  automobile  for  Damon  Runyon, 
a  fellow  correspondent.  English,  with  his  quaint  South- 
western wit,  had  become  in  Mexico  a  welcome  occu- 
pant of  the  large  pyramidal  tent  which  housed  the  corre- 
spondents attached  to  the  Expedition.  We  would  sit  for 
hours  hearing  him  tell  his  stories  of  the  plains  and  the 
deserts  of  Chihuahua. 

English  and  I  were  sitting  on  his  bed  at  one  corner 
of  the  barrack  room,  rows  of  cots  ranged  each  side  of 
the  wall  and  on  these  were  the  snoring  men  of  the  bat- 
tery. The  room  was  dimly  illuminated  by  a  candle  on 
a  shelf  over  English's  head  and  another  candle  located 
on  another  shelf  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  room. 
There  was  a  man  in  bed  in  a  corner  reading  a  newspaper 
by  the  feeble  rays  of  the  candle. 

Suddenly  we  heard  him  growl  and  tear  the  page  of 
the  newspaper  in  half.  His  exclamation  attracted  my 
attention  and  I  looked  his  way.  His  hair  was  closely 
cropped  and  his  head,  particularly  his  ears  and  fore- 
head, and  jaw,  stamped  him  as  a  rough  and  ready  fighter. 

"That's  Kid  Ferguson,  the  pug,"  English  whispered 
to  me,  and  then  in  louder  tones,  he  enquired,  "What's 
eating  on  you,  kid?" 

"Aw.  this  bunk  in  the  paper,"  replied  Ferguson.    Then 


ioo  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

he  glared  at  me  and  enquired,  "Did  you  write  this  stuff?" 

"What  stuff?"  I  replied.     "Read  it  out." 

Ferguson  picked  up  the  paper  and  began  to  read  in 
mocking  tones  something  that  went  as  follows: 

"Isn't  it  beautiful  in  the  cold  early  dawn  in  France,  to 
see  our  dear  American  soldiers  get  up  from  their  bunks 
and  go  whistling  down  to  the  stables  to  take  care  of 
their  beloved  animals." 

English  laughed  uproariously. 

"The  Kid  don't  like  horses  no  more  than  I  do,"  he 
said.  "Neither  one  of  us  have  got  any  use  for  them 
at  all.  And  here,  that's  all  they  keep  us  doing,  is  tending 
horses.  I  went  down  there  the  other  morning  with  a 
lantern  and  one  of  them  long-eared  babies  just  kicked  it 
clean  out  of  my  hand.  The  other  morning  one  of  them 
planted  two  hoofs  right  on  Ferguson's  chest  and  knocked 
him  clear  out  of  the  stable.  It  broke  his  watch  and 
his  girl's  picture. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Gibbons,  I  never  did  have  any  use 
for  horses.  When  I  was  about  eight  years  old  a  horse 
bit  me.  When  I  was  about  fifteen  years  old  I  got  run 
over  by  an  ice-wagon.  Horses  is  just  been  the  ruination 
of  me. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  them  I  might  have  gone  through 
college  and  been  an  officer  in  this  here  army.  You  re- 
member that  great  big  dairy  out  on  the  edge  of  the 
town  in  El  Paso?  Well,  my  dad  owned  that  and  he  lost 
all  of  it  on  the  ponies  in  Juarez.    I  just  hate  horses. 

"I  know  everything  there  is  to  know  about  an  auto- 
mobile. I  have  driven  cross  country  automobile  races 
and  after  we  come  out  of  Mexico,  after  we  didn't  get 
Villa,  I  went  to  work  in  the  army  machine  shops  at 
Fort  Bliss  and  took  down  all  them  motor  trucks  and 
built  them  all  over  again. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  101 


"When  Uncle  Sam  got  into  the  war  against  Germany, 
this  here  Artillery  Battalion  was  stationed  out  at  Fort 
Bliss,  and  I  went  to  see  the  Major  about  enlisting,  but 
I  told  him  I  didn't  want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  no 
horses. 

"And  he  says,  'English,  don't  you  bother  about  that. 
You  join  up  with  this  here  battalion,  because  when  we 
leave  for  France  we're  going  to  kiss  good-bye  to  them 
horses  forever.  This  here  battalion  is  going  to  be  mo- 
torised.' 

"And  now  here  we  are  in  France,  and  we  still  got 
horses,  and  they  don't  like  me  and  I  don't  like  them,  and 
yet  I  got  to  mill  around  with  'em  every  day.  The  Ger- 
mans ain't  never  going  to  kill  me.  They  ain't  going  to 
get  a  chance.  They  just  going  to  find  me  trampled  to 
death  some  morning  down  in  that  stable." 

Two  or  three  of  the  occupants  of  nearby  beds  had 
arisen  and  taken  seats  on  English's  bed.  They  joined 
the  conversation.  One  red-headed  youngster,  wearing 
heavy  flannel  underwear  in  lieu  of  pajamas,  made  the 
first  contribution  to  the  discussion. 

"That's  just  what  I'm  beefing  about,"  he  said.  "Here 
I've  been  in  this  army  two  months  now  and  I'm  still  a 
private.  There  ain't  no  chance  here  for  a  guy  that's  got 
experience." 

"Experience?  Where  do  you  get  that  experience 
talk?"  demanded  English.  "What  do  you  know  about 
artillery?" 

"That's  just  what  I  mean,  experience,"  the  red-headed 
one  replied  with  fire.  "I  got  experience.  Mr.  Gibbons 
knows  me.  I'm  from  Chicago,  the  same  as  he  is.  I 
worked  in  Chicago  at  Riverview  Park.  I'm  the  guy  that 
fired  the  gattling   gun   in   the   Monitor  and   Merrimac 


102  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

show — we  had  two  shows  a  day  and  two  shows  in  the 
evening  and " 

"Kin  you  beat  that,"  demanded  English.  "You  know, 
if  this  here  red-headed  guy  don't  get  promotion  pretty 
quick,  he's  just  simply  going  to  quit  this  army  and 
leave  us  flat  here  in  France  facing  the  Germans. 

"Let  me  tell  you  about  this  gattling  gun  expert.  When 
they  landed  us  off  of  them  boats  down  on  the  coast,  the 
battalion  commander  turned  us  all  loose  for  a  swim  in 
the  bay,  and  this  here  bird  almost  drowned.  He  went 
down  three  times  before  we  could  pull  him  out. 

"Now,  if  they  don't  make  him  a  Brigadier  General 
pretty  quick,  he's  going  to  get  sore  and  put  in  for  a 
transfer  to  the  Navy  on  the  grounds  of  having  submarine 
experience.  But  he's  right  in  one  thing — experience 
don't  count  for  what  it  should  in  the  army. 

"Right  here  in  our  battery  we  got  a  lot  of  plough 
boys  from  Kansas  that  have  been  sitting  on  a  plough  and 
looking  at  a  horse's  back  all  their  lives,  and  they  got 
them  handling  the  machinery  on  these  here  guns.  And 
me,  who  knows  everything  there  is  to  know  about  ma- 
chinery, they  won't  let  me  even  find  out  which  end  of 
the  cannon  you  put  the  shell  in  and  which  end  it  comes 
out  of.  All  I  do  all  day  long  is  to  prod  around  a  couple 
of  fat-hipped  hayburners.     My  God,  I  hate  horses." 

But  regardless  of  these  inconveniences  those  first 
American  artillerymen  in  our  overseas  forces  applied 
themselves  strenuously  to  their  studies.  They  were  there 
primarily  to  learn.  It  became  necessary  for  them  at  first 
to  make  themselves  forget  a  lot  of  things  that  they  had 
previously  learned  by  artillery  and  adapt  themselves  to 
new  methods  and  instruments  of  war. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  "Swansant,  Kansas"?  You 
probably  won't  find  it  on  any  train  schedule  in  the  Sun- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  103 

flower  State;  in  fact,  it  isn't  a  place  at  all.  It  is  the 
name  of  the  light  field  cannon  that  France  provided  our 
men  for  use  against  the  German  line. 

"Swansant,  Kansas"  is  phonetic  spelling  of  the  name 
as  pronounced  by  American  gunners.  The  French  got 
the  same  effect  in  pronunciation  by  spelling  the  singular 
"soixante  quinze,"  but  a  Yankee  cannoneer  trying  to  pro- 
nounce it  from  that  orthography  was  forced  to  call  it  a 
"quince,"  and  that  was  something  which  it  distinctly 
was  not. 

One  way  or  the  other  it  meant  the  "Seventy-fives" — 
the  "Admirable  Seventy-five" — the  seventy-five  milli- 
metre field  pieces  that  stopped  the  Germans'  Paris  drive 
at  the  Marne — the  same  that  gave  Little  Willie  a  head- 
ache at  Verdun, — the  inimitable,  rapid  firing,  target 
hugging,  hell  raising,  shell  spitting  engine  of  destruction 
whose  secret  of  recoil  remained  a  secret  after  almost 
twenty  years  and  whose  dependability  was  a  French  prov- 
erb. 

At  Valdahon  where  American  artillery  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  Seventy-five,  the  khaki-clad  gun  crews 
called  her  "some  cannon."  At  seven  o'clock  every  morn- 
ing, the  glass  windows  in  my  room  at  the  post  would 
rattle  with  her  opening  barks,  and  from  that  minute  on 
until  noon  the  Seventy-fives,  battery  upon  battery  of 
them,  would  snap  and  bark  away  until  their  seemingly 
ceaseless  fire  becomes  a  volley  of  sharp  cracks  which 
sent  the  echoes  chasing  one  another  through  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  the  forests  that  conceal  them. 

The  targets,  of  course,  were  unseen.  Range  elevation, 
deflection,  all  came  to  the  battery  over  the  signal  wires 
that  connected  the  firing  position  with  some  observation 
point  also  unseen  but  located  in  a  position  commanding 
the  terrain  under  fire. 


io4  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

A  signalman  sat  cross-legged  on  the  ground  back  of 
each  battery.  He  received  the  firing  directions  from  the 
transmitter  clamped  to  his  ears  and  conveyed  them  to 
the  firing  executive  who  stood  beside  him.  They  were 
then  megaphoned  to  the  sergeants  chief  of  sections. 

The  corporal  gunner,  with  eye  on  the  sighting,  instru- 
ments at  the  side  of  each  gun,  "laid  the  piece"  for  range 
and  deflection.  Number  one  man  of  the  crew  opened 
the  block  to  receive  the  shell,  which  was  inserted  by 
number  two.  Number  three  adjusted  the  fuse-setter, 
and  cut  the  fuses.  Numbers  four  and  five  screwed  the 
fuses  in  the  shells  and  kept  the  fuse-setter  loaded. 

The  section  chiefs,  watch  in  hand,  gave  the  firing  com- 
mand to  the  gun  crews,  and  number  one  of  each  piece 
jerked  the  firing  lanyard  at  ten  second  intervals  or  what-* 
ever  interval  the  command  might  call  for.  The  four 
guns  would  discharge  their  projectiles.  They  whined  over 
the  damp  wooded  ridge  to  distant  imaginary  lines  of 
trenches,  theoretical  cross-roads,  or  designated  sections 
where  the  enemy  was  supposed  to  be  massing  for  attack. 
Round  after  round  would  follow,  while  telephoned  cor- 
rections perfected  the  range,  and  burst.  The  course  of 
each  shell  was  closely  observed  as  well  as  its  bursting 
effect,  but  no  stupendous  records  were  kept  of  the  indi- 
vidual shots.     That  was  "peace  time  stuff." 

These  batteries  and  regiments  were  learning  gunnery 
and  no  scarcity  of  shells  was  permitted  to  interfere  with 
their  education.  One  officer  told  me  that  it  was  his 
opinion  that  one  brigade  firing  at  this  schooling  post 
during  a  course  of  six  weeks,  had  expended  more  am- 
munition than  all  of  the  field  artillery  of  the  United 
States  Army  has  fired  during  the  entire  period  since  the 
Civil  War.  The  Seventy-five  shells  cost  approximately 
ten  dollars  apiece,  but  neither  the  French  nor  American 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  105 

artillery  directors  felt  that  a  penny's  worth  was  being 
wasted.  They  said  cannon  firing  could  not  be  learned 
entirely  out  of  a  book. 

I  had  talked  with  a  French  instructor,  a  Yale  graduate, 
who  had  been  two  years  with  the  guns  at  the  front,  and 
I  had  asked  him  what  in  his  opinion  was  the  most  dis- 
concerting thing  that  could  happen  to  effect  the  morale 
of  new  gunners  under  actual  fire.  I  wanted  some  idea 
of  what  might  be  expected  of  American  artillerymen 
when  they  made  their  initial  appearance  on  the  line. 

We  discussed  the  effect  of  counter  battery  fire,  the 
effect  on  gun  crews  of  asphyxiating  gas,  either  that  car- 
ried on  the  wind  from  the  enemy  trenches  or  that  sent 
over  in  gas  shells.  We  considered  the  demoralising  in- 
fluences of  aerial  attacks  on  gun  positions  behind  the  line. 

"They  are  all  bad,"  my  informant  concluded.  "But 
they  are  expected.  Men  can  stand  without  complaint  and 
without  qualm  any  danger  that  is  directed  at  them  by  the 
foe  they  are  fighting.  The  thing  that  really  bothers, 
though,  is  the  danger  of  death  or  injury  from  their  own 
weapons  or  ammunition.  You  see,  many  times  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  a  faulty  shell,  although  careful  in- 
spection in  the  munitions  plants  has  reduced  this  danger 
to  a  percentage  of  about  one  in  ten  thousand. 

"At  the  beginning  of  the  war  when  every  little  tin 
shop  all  over  the  world  was  converted  into  a  munitions 
factory  to  supply  the  great  need  of  shells,  much  faulty 
ammunition  reached  the  front  lines.  Some  of  the  shells 
would  explode  almost  as  soon  as  they  left  the  gun.  They 
are  called  shorts.  The  English,  who  had  the  same  trou- 
ble, call  them  'muzzle  bursts.' 

"Sometimes  the  shell  would  explode  in  the  bore  of  the 
cannon,  in  which  case  the  cannoneers  were  usually  killed 
either  by  pieces  of  the  shell  itself  or  bits  of  the  cannon. 


106  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

The  gunners  have  to  sit  beside  the  cannon  when  it  is 
fired,  and  the  rest  of  the  gun  crew  are  all  within  eight 
feet  of  it.  If  there  is  an  explosion  in  the  breech  of  the 
gun,  it  usually  wipes  out  most  of  the  crew.  A  muzzle 
burst,  or  a  breech  explosion,  is  one  of  the  most  discon- 
certing things  that  could  happen  in  a  battery. 

"The  other  men  in  the  battery  know  of  course  that  a 
faulty  shell  caused  the  explosion.  They  also  know  that 
they  are  firing  ammunition  from  the  same  lot.  After 
that,  as  they  pull  the  trigger  on  each  shot,  they  don't 
know  whether  the  shell  is  going  out  of  the  gun  all  right 
or  whether  it  is  going  to  explode  in  the  breech  and  kill 
all  of  them.  That  thought  in  a  man's  mind  when  he 
pulls  the  firing  lanyard,  that  thought  in  the  minds  of  the 
whole  crew  as  they  stand  there  waiting  for  the  crash,  is 
positively  demoralising. 

"When  it  happens  in  our  French  artillery  the  can- 
noneers lose  confidence  in  their  pieces.  They  build  small 
individual  dugouts  a  safe  ways  back  from  the  gun  and 
extend  the  lanyard  a  safe  distance.  Then,  with  all  the 
gun  crew  under  cover,  they  fire  the  piece.  This  naturally 
removes  them  from  their  regular  firing  positions  beside 
the  pieces,  reduces  the  accuracy  and  slows  up  the  entire 
action  of  the  battery.  The  men's  suspicions  of  the  shells 
combined  with  the  fear  of  death  by  their  own  weapons, 
which  is  greater  than  any  fear  of  death  at  the  hands  of 
the  enemy,  all  reduce  the  morale  of  the  gun  crews." 

Now,  for  an  incident.  A  new  shipment  of  ammunition 
had  reached  the  post.  The  caissons  were  filled  with  it. 
Early  the  following  morning  when  the  guns  rumbled 
out  of  camp  to  the  practice  grounds,  Battery  X  was  firing 
in  the  open.  At  the  third  shot  the  shell  from  piece  num- 
ber two  exploded  prematurely  thirty  yards  from  the  muz- 
zle.   Pieces  three  and  four  fired  ten  and  twenty  seconds 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  107 

later  with  every  man  standing  on  his  toes  in  his  pre- 
scribed position. 

Ten  rounds  later,  a  shell  from  number  three  gun  ex- 
ploded thirty  feet  after  leaving  the  bore.  Shell  particles 
buried  themselves  in  the  ground  near  the  battery.  Piece 
number  four,  right  next  to  it,  was  due  to  fire  in  ten 
seconds.  It  discharged  its  projectiles  on  the  dot. 
The  gun  crews  knew  what  they  were  up  against.  They 
were  firing  faulty  ammunition.  They  passed  whispered 
remarks  but  reloaded  with  more  of  the  same  ammunition 
and  with  military  precision  on  the  immediate  command. 
Every  man  stuck  to  his  position.  As  each  gun  was  fired 
the  immediate  possibilities  were  not  difficult  to  imagine. 

Then  it  happened. 

"Commence  firing,"  megaphoned  the  firing  executive. 
The  section  chief  of  number  one  piece  dropped  his  right 
hand  as  the  signal  for  the  dicharge.  The  corporal  gun- 
ner was  sitting  on  the  metal  seat  in  front  of  his  instru- 
ments and  not  ten  inches  to  the  left  of  the  breech.  Can- 
noneer number  one  of  the  gun  crew  occupied  his  pre- 
scribed position  in  the  same  location  to  the  immediate 
right  of  the  breech.  Gunner  number  two  was  standing 
six  feet  behind  the  breech  and  slightly  to  the  left  ready 
to  receive  the  ejected  cartridge  case.  Gunner  number 
three  was  kneeling  over  the  fuse  setter  behind  the  caisson 
which  stood  wheel  to  wheel  with  the  gun  carriage.  Gun- 
ners four  and  five  were  rigid  statues  three  feet  back  of 
him.  Every  man  in  the  crew  had  seen  the  previous  bursts 
of  dangerous  ammunition. 

Number  one's  eye  caught  the  descending  hand  of  the 
section  chief.    He  pulled  the  lanyard. 

There  was  an  eruption  of  orange  coloured  flame,  a 
deafening  roar,  a  crash  of  rendered  steel,  a  cloud  of 
smoke  blue  green,  and  yellow. 


108  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

A  black  chunk  of  the  gun  cradle  hurtled  backward 
through  the  air  with  a  vicious  swish.  A  piece  of  the 
bore  splintered  the  wheels  and  buried  itself  in  the  ammu- 
nition caisson.  Thick  hunks  of  gun  metal  crumbling 
like  dry  cake  filled  the  air.    The  ground  shook. 

The  corporal  gunner  pitched  backward  from  his  seat 
and  collapsed  on  the  ground.  His  mate  with  fists  buried 
in  his  steel  seared  eyes  staggered  out  of  the  choking 
fumes.  The  rest  of  the  crew  picked  themselves  up  in  a 
dazed  condition.  Fifty  yards  away  a  horse  was  strug- 
gling to  regain  his  feet. 

Every  man  in  the  three  other  gun  crews  knew  what 
had  happened.  None  of  them  moved  from  their  posts. 
They  knew  their  guns  were  loaded  with  shells  from  the 
same  lot  and  possibly  with  the  same  faults.  No  man 
knew  what  would  happen  when  the  next  firing  pin  went 
home.  The  evidence  was  before  them.  Their  eyes  were 
on  the  exploded  gun  but  not  for  long. 

"Crash,"  the  ten  second  firing  interval  had  expired. 
The  section  chief  of  piece  number  two  had  dropped  his 
hand.     The  second  gun  in  the  battery  had  fired. 

"Number  two  on  the  way,"  sang  out  the  signalman 
over  the  telephone  wire  to  the  hidden  observation  station. 

Ten  seconds  more  for  another  gun  crew  to  cogitate  on 
whether  disaster  hung  on  the  dart  of  a  firing  pin. 

"Crash." 

"Number  three  on  the  way." 

Another  ten  seconds  for  the  last  section  to  wonder 
whether  death  would  come  with  the  lanyard  jerk. 

"Crash." 

"Number  four  on  the  way."  Round  complete.  The 
signalman  finished  his  telephone  report. 

Four  horses  drawing  an  army  ambulance  galloped  up 
from  the  ravine  that  sheltered  them.    The  corporal  gun- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  109 

ner,  unconscious  and  with  one  leg  pulverised  was  lifted 
in.  Two  other  dazed  members  of  the  crew  were  helped 
into  the  vehicle.  One  was  bleeding-  from  the  shoulder. 
The  lead  horses  swung  about;  the  ambulance  rattled 
away. 

"Battery  ready  to  fire.  Piece  number  one  out  of  ao 
tion."  It  was  the  signalman  reporting  over  the  wire  to 
the  observer. 

Battery  X  fired  the  rest  of  the  morning  and  they  used 
ammunition  from  the  same  lot  and  every  man  knew 
what  might  happen  any  minute  and  every  man  was  in 
his  exact  position  for  every  shot  and  nobody  happened 
to  think  about  hiding  in  a  dugout  and  putting  a  long 
string  on  the  firing  lanyard. 

It  had  been  an  unstaged,  unconscious  demonstration 
of  nerve  and  grit  and  it  proved  beyond  all  question  the 
capacity  of  American  artillerymen  to  stand  by  the  guns. 

The  gunner  corporal  told  the  nurse  at  his  bedside  how 
it  all  happened,  but  he  was  still  under  the  effects  of  the 
anesthetic.  He  did  not  refer  to  the  morale  of  his  battery 
mates  because  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  there  was 
anything  unusual  in  what  they  did.  But  he  did  think 
that  he  could  wiggle  the  toes  on  his  right  leg.  The  doctor 
told  me  that  this  was  a  common  delusion  before  the 
patient  had  been  informed  of  the  amputation. 

Incidents  such  as  the  one  related  had  no  effect  what- 
ever upon  the  progress  of  the  work.  From  early  dawn 
to  late  at  night  the  men  followed  their  strenuous  duties 
six  days  a  week  and  then  obtained  the  necessary  relief  on 
the  seventh  day  by  trips  down  to  the  ancient  town  of 
Besanqon. 

In  this  picturesque  country  where  countless  thousands 
fought  and  died,  down  through  the  bloody  centuries  since 
and  before  the  Christian  era,  where  Julius  Caesar  paused 


no  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

in  his  far  flung  raids  to  dictate  new  inserts  to  his  com- 
mentaries, where  kings  and  queens  and  dukes  and  pre- 
tenders left  undying  traces  of  ambition's  stormy  urgings, 
there  it  was  that  American  soldiers,  in  training  for  the 
war  of  wars,  spent  week-end  holidays  and  mixed  the 
breath  of  romance  with  the  drag  of  their  cigarettes. 

The  extender  of  Roman  borders  divided  that  region 
into  three  parts,  according  to  the  testimony  of  the  first 
Latin  class,  but  he  neglected  to  mention  that  of  these 
three  parts  the  one  decreed  for  American  occupation  was 
the  most  romantic  of  them  all. 

It  is  late  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  and  I  accept  the 
major's  offer  of  a  seat  in  his  mud-bespattered  "Hunka 
Tin."  The  field  guns  have  ceased  their  roar  for  the 
day  and  their  bores  will  be  allowed  to  cool  over  Sunday. 
Five  per  cent,  of  the  men  at  the  post  have  received  the 
coveted  town  leave. 

They  form  a  khaki  fresco  on  the  cab  and  sides  of  the 
giant  commissary  trucks  that  raise  the  dust  along  the 
winding  white  road  over  the  hills.  Snorting  motor- 
cycles with  two  men  over  the  motor  and  an  officer  in 
the  side  car  skim  over  the  ground,  passing  all  others.  A 
lukewarm  sun  disappears  in  a  slot  in  the  mountains  and 
a  blue  grey  mist  forms  in  the  valleys.  A  chill  comes 
over  the  air  and  a  cold  new  moon  looks  down  and  laughs. 

It  is  a  long  ride  to  the  ancient  town,  but  speed  laws 
and  motor  traps  are  unknown  and  the  hood  of  the  De- 
troit Dilemma  shakes  like  a  wet  dog  as  her  sizzling  hot 
cylinders  suck  juice  from  a  full  throttle.  We  cross  one 
divide  through  a  winding  road  bordered  by  bushy  trees 
and  as  orderly  as  a  national  park.  We  coast  through 
a  hillside  hamlet  of  barking  dogs  and  saluting  children 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  m 

who  stand  at  smiling  attention  and  greet  our  passage 
with  a  shrill  "Veev  La  Mereek"  (Vive  l'Amerique). 

We  scud  across  a  broad,  level  road  built  well  above 
the  lowland,  and  climb  through  zigzagging  avenues  of 
stately  poplars  to  the  tunnel  that  pierces  the  backbone  of 
the  next  ridge. 

While  the  solid  rock  walls  of  the  black  bore  reverber- 
ate with  the  echoes  from  our  exhaust,  we  emerge  on  a 
road  that  turns  sharply  to  the  left  and  hugs  a  cliff.  Be- 
low winds  a  broad  river  that  looks  like  mother  of  pearl 
in  the  moonlight.  The  mountain  walls  on  either  side 
rise  at  angles  approximating  45  degrees,  and  in  the  light 
their  orderly  vineyards  look  like  the  squares  on  a  sloping 
checkerboard.  In  front  of  us  and  to  the  right  the  flank- 
ing ridges  converge  to  a  narrow  gorge  through  which 
the  river  Doub  runs  to  loop  the  town. 

Commanding  this  gorge  from  the  crests  of  the  two 
rocky  heights  are  sinister  sentinels  whose  smooth,  grey 
walls  and  towers  rise  sheer  from  the  brink  of  the  cliffs. 
The  moonlight  now  catching  the  ramparts  of  the  em- 
battlements  splashes  them  with  strokes  of  white  that 
seem  ever  brighter  in  contrast  with  the  darker  shadows 
made  by  projecting  portions  of  the  walls.  Spaniard 
and  Moor  knew  well  those  walls,  and  all  the  kingly 
glory  that  hurried  France  to  the  reign  of  terror  has  slept 
within  their  shadows. 

Our  way  down  the  cliff  side  is  hewn  out  of  the  beetling 
rock.  To  our  left,  a  jagged  wall  of  rock  rises  to  the  sky. 
To  our  right,  a  step,  rock-tumbled  declivity  drops  to 
the   river's  edge. 

The  moonlight  brings  funny  fancies,  and  our  yellow 
headlights,  wavering  in  concentric  arcs  with  each  turn 
of  the  course,  almost  seem  to  glint  on  the  helmets  and 
shields  of  the  spear-bearing  legionaries  that  marched  that 


112  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

very  way  to  force  a  southern  culture  on  the  Gauls.  We 
slow  down  to  pass  through  the  rock-hewn  gate  that  once 
was  the  Roman  aqueduct  bringing  water  down  from 
mountain  springs  to  the  town. 

Through  the  gate,  a  turn  to  the  left  and  we  reach  the 
black  bottom  of  the  gorge  untouched  by  the  rising  moon. 
We  face  a  blast  of  wind  that  slows  our  speed  and  brings 
with  it  the  first  big  drops  of  rain.  We  stop  at  the 
"Octroi"  and  assure  the  customs  collector  that  we  are 
military,  and  that  we  carry  no  dutiable  wine,  or  beans 
or  wood  into  the  town. 

Yet  another  gate,  built  across  the  narrow  road  between 
the  cliff  and  the  river,  and  we  enter  the  town.  It  has 
been  raining  and  the  cobblestones  are  slippery.  They 
shine  in  the  gleams  of  pale  light  that  come  from  the  top- 
heavy  street  lamps.  Gargoyle  water  spouts  drip  drain- 
age from  the  gables  of  moss-speckled  tiles. 

We  pass  a  fountain  that  the  Romans  left,  and  rounded 
arches  further  on  show  where  the  hooded  Moor  wrote 
his  name  in  masonry.  Barred  windows  and  stone  bal- 
conies projecting  over  the  street  take  one's  mind  off  the 
rattling  motor  and  cause  it  to  wander  back  to  times  when 
serenading  lovers  twanged  guitars  beneath  their  ladies' 
windows  and  were  satisfied  with  the  flower  that  dropped 
from  the  balcony. 

The  streets  are  wet  and  dark  now  and  through  their 
narrow  windings  our  headlights  reveal  tall  figures  in 
slickers  or  khaki  overcoats  topped  by  peaked  felt  hats 
with  the  red  cords  of  American  artillerymen.  Their 
identification  is  a  surprise  to  the  dreamer,  because  one 
rather  expects  these  figures  to  sulk  in  the  deeper  shadows 
and  screen  their  dark,  bearded  faces  with  the  broad  brims 
of  black  felt  hats  or  muffle  themselves  to  the  chin  in 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  113 

long,  flowing  black  cloaks  that  hide  rapiers  and  stilettos 
and  other  properties  of  mediaeval  charm. 

We  dine  in  a  room  three  hundred  years  old.  The  pres- 
ence of  our  automobile  within  the  inner  quadrangle  of  the 
ancient  building  jars  on  the  sense  of  fitness.  It  is  an  old 
convent,  now  occupied  by  irreligious  tenants  on  the 
upper  three  floors,  restaurants  and  estaminets  on  the 
lower  floor.  These  shops  open  on  a  broad  gallery,  level 
with  the  courtyard,  and  separated  from  it  only  by  the 
rows  of  pillars  that  support  the  arches.  It  extends 
around  the  four  sides  of  the  court. 

Centuries  ago  shrouded  nuns,  clasping  beads  or  books 
of  office,  walked  in  uncommunicative  pairs  and  mum- 
bled their  daily  prayers  beneath  these  time-worn  arches, 
and  to-night  it  affords  a  promenade  for  officers  wait- 
ing for  their  meals  to  be  served  at  madame's  well  laid 
tables  within. 

Madame's  tables  are  not  too  many.  There  is  not  the 
space  economy  of  an  American  cafe,  where  elbows  inter- 
lock and  waiters  are  forced  to  navigate  fearsome  cargoes 
above  the  diners'  heads.  Neither  is  there  the  unwhole- 
some, dust-filled  carpet  of  London's  roast  beef  palaces. 

Madame's  floor  is  bare,  but  the  wood  has  stood  the 
scrubbings  of  years,  and  is  as  spotless  as  grass-dried 
linen.  The  high  ceiling  and  the  walls  are  of  white 
stucco.  In  bas-relief  are  clusters  of  heraldic  signs,  of 
bishops'  crooks  and  cathedral  keys,  of  mounted  chargers 
and  dying  dragoons,  of  miter  and  crown,  and  trumpet 
and  shield,  and  cross. 

Large  mirrors,  circled  with  wreaths  of  gilded  leaves, 
adorn  both  end  walls,  and  beneath  one  of  them  remains 
an  ornate  fireplace  and  mantelpiece  of  bologna  coloured 
marble,  surmounted  with  a  gilt  cock  of  wondrous  de- 
sign.     Beneath   the  other  mirror   madame   has  placed 


u4  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

her  buffet,  on  which  the  boy  who  explores  the  dusty- 
caves  below  places  the  cobwebbed  bottles  of  red  wine 
for  the  last  cork  pulling.  Large  gold  chandeliers,  dang- 
ling with  glass  prisms,  are  suspended  from  high  ceiling 
and  flood  the  room  with  light,  against  which  the  inner 
shutters  of  the  tall  windows  must  be  shut  because  of 
danger  from  the  sky. 

There  is  colour  in  that  room.  The  Roman  conquerors 
would  have  found  it  interesting.  If  former  armed  oc- 
cupants of  the  old  town  could  have  paraded  in  their 
ancient  habiliments  through  the  room  like  a  procession 
from  the  martial  past,  they  would  have  found  much  for 
their  attention  in  this  scene  of  the  martial  present. 
American  khaki  seems  to  predominate,  although  at  sev- 
eral tables  are  Canadian  officers  in  uniforms  of  the 
same  colour  but  of  different  tailoring. 

The  tables  are  flecked  with  all  varieties  of  French 
uniforms,  from  scarlet  pants  with  solitary  black  stripes 
down  the  leg,  to  tunics  of  horizon  blue.  In  one  corner 
there  are  two  turbaned  Algerians  with  heads  bent  close 
over  their  black  coffee,  and  one  horn  of  the  hall  rack 
shows  a  red  fez  with  a  gold  crescent  on  the  crown. 

Consider  the  company.  That  freckle-faced  youth 
with  the  fluffed  reddish  hair  of  a  bandmaster  is  a  French 
aviator,  and  among  the  row  of  decorations  on  his  dark 
blue  coat  is  one  that  he  received  by  reason  of  a  well 
known  adventure  over  the  German  lines,  which  cannot 
be  mentioned  here.  That  American  colonel  whose  short 
grey  hair  blends  into  the  white  wall  behind  him  is  a 
former  member  of  the  United  States  war  college  and 
one  of  the  most  important  factors  in  the  legislation 
that  shaped  the  present  military  status  of  his  country. 
That  other  Frenchman  with  the  unusual  gold  shoulder 
straps  is  not  a  member  of  the  French  army.     He  is  a 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  115 

naval  officer,  and  the  daring  with  which  he  carried  his 
mapping  chart  along  exposed  portions  of  the  line  at  Ver- 
dun and  evolved  the  mathematical  data  on  which  the 
French  fired  their  guns  against  the  German  waves  has 
been  the  pride  of  both  the  navy  and  the  army. 

Over  there  is  a  young  captain  who  this  time  last  year 
was  a  "shavetail"  second  in  command  at  a  small  post 
along  the  line  of  communications  in  Chihuahua.  Next 
to  him  sits  a  tall  dark  youngster  wearing  with  pride 
his  first  Sam  Browne  belt  and  "U.  S.  R."  on  his  collar. 
He  carted  human  wreckage  to  the  hospitals  on  the 
French  front  for  two  years  before  Uncle  Sam  decided 
to  end  the  war.  There's  another  one  not  long  from 
the  "Point,"  booted  and  spurred  and  moulded  to  his 
uniform.  He  speaks  with  a  twang  of  old  Virginia  on 
every  syllable  and  they  say  his  family — but  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  fact  that  he  is  aid  to  a  major 
general  and  is  in  these  parts  on  a  mission. 

There  are  three  American  women  in  the  room.  One 
who  is  interested  in  Y.  M.  C.  A.  work  and  a  number 
of  newspapers,  wears  a  feminine  adaptation  of  the  uni- 
form and  holds  court  at  the  head  of  a  table  of  five  offi- 
cers. Another,  Mrs.  Robert  R.  McCormick,  who  is  en- 
gaged in  the  extension  of  the  canteen  work  of  a  Paris 
organisation,  is  sitting  at  our  table  and  she  is  willing  to 
wager  her  husband  anything  from  half  a  dozen  gloves 
to  a  big  donation  check  that  Germany  will  be  ready  for 
any  kind  of  peace  before  an  American  offensive  in  the 
spring. 

The  interests  of  the  other  American  woman  are  nega- 
tive. She  professes  no  concern  in  the  fact  that  war  cor- 
respondents' life  insurances  are  cancelled,  but  she  repeats 
to  me  that  a  dead  correspondent  is  of  no  use  to  his  paper, 
and  I  reply  that  if  madame  puts  yet  another  one  of  her 


n6  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


courses  on  the  board,  one  correspondent  will  die  with  a 
fork  in  his  hand  instead  of  a  pencil. 

The  diners  are  leaving.  Each  opening  of  the  salon 
door  brings  in  a  gust  of  dampness  that  makes  the  table- 
cloths flap.  Rain  coats  swish  and  rustle  in  the  entry. 
Rain  is  falling  in  sheets  in  the  black  courtyard.  The 
moon  is  gone. 

A  merry  party  trails  down  the  stone  gallery  skirting 
the  quadrangle.  Their  hobnailed  soles  and  steel  plated 
heels  ring  on  the  stone  flags.  The  arches  echo  back  their 
song: 

"In  days  of  old 
A  warrior  bold 

Sang  merrily  his  lay,  etc.  etc.  etc. 
My  love  is  young  and  fair. 
My  love  has  golden  hair, 
So  what  care  I 
Though  death  be  nigh,  etc.  etc.  etc. 

With  frequent  passages  where  a  dearth  of  words  re- 
duce the  selection  to  musical  but  meaningless  ta-de-ta-tas, 
the  voices  melt  into  the  blackness  and  the  rain. 

"Great  times  to  be  alive,"  I  say  to  the  wife.  "This 
place  is  saturated  with  romance.  I  don't  have  to  be 
back  to  the  post  until  to-morrow  night.  Where  will  we 
go?  They  are  singing  'Carmen'  in  the  old  opera  house 
on  the  square.     What  do  you  say?" 

"There's  a  Charlie  Chaplin  on  the  programme  next  to 
the  hotel,"  the  wife  replies. 

Romance  was  slapped  with  a  custard  pie. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  117 


CHAPTER  VI 
"frontward  ho!" 

When  the  artillery  training  had  proceeded  to  such  a 
point  that  the  French  instructors  were  congratulating 
our  officers  upon  their  proficiency,  the  rumours  spread 
through  the  post  that  the  brigade  had  been  ordered  to 
go  to  the  front — that  we  were  to  be  the  first  American 
soldiers  to  actually  go  into  the  line  and  face  the  Germans. 

The  news  was  received  with  joy.  The  men  were  keen 
to  try  out  their  newly  acquired  abilities  upon  the  enemy. 
Harness  was  polished  until  it  shone.  Brass  equipment 
gleamed  until  you  could  almost  see  your  face  in  it.  The 
men  groomed  the  horses  until  the  animals  got  pains 
from  it.  Enlisted  men  sojourning  in  the  Guard  House 
for  petty  offences,  despatched  their  guards  with  scrawled 
pleadings  that  the  sentences  be  changed  to  fines  so  that 
they  could  accompany  the  outfits  to  the  front. 

With  one  special  purpose  in  view,  I  made  application 
to  General  March  for  an  assignment  to  Battery  A  of 
the  Sixth  Field  Artillery.  I  received  the  appointment. 
The  Sixth  was  the  first  regiment  of  the  brigade  and  A 
was  the  first  battery  of  the  regiment.  I  knew  that  we 
would  march  out  in  that  order,  that  Battery  A  would 
entrain  first,  detrain  first,  go  in  the  line  first,  and  I  hoped 
to  be  present  at  the  firing  of  the  first  American  shot  in 
the  war. 

We  pulled  out  of  the  post  on  schedule  time  early  in 
the  morning,  two  days  later.  Officers  and  men  had 
been  up  and  dressed  since  midnight.  Ten  minutes  after 
their  arising,  blankets  had  been  rolled  and  all  personal 


n8  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

equipment  packed  ready  for  departure  with  the  exception 
of  mess  kits. 

While  the  stable  police  details  fed  the  horses,  the  rest 
of  us  "leaned  up  against"  steak,  hot  biscuits,  syrup  and 
hot  coffee.  The  cook  had  been  on  the  job  all  night  and 
his  efforts  touched  the  right  spot.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
was  the  coldest  hour  of  the  night  and  the  hot  "chow" 
acted  as  a  primer  on  the  sleepy  human  machines. 

In  the  darkness,  the  animals  were  packed  into  the 
gun  carriages  and  caissons  down  in  the  gun  park,  and 
it  was  4  A.  M.  on  the  dot  when  the  captain's  whistle 
sounded  and  we  moved  off  the  reserve.  As  we  rattled 
over  the  railroad  crossing  and  took  the  road,  the  men 
made  facetious  good-byes  to  the  scene  of  their  six  weeks' 
training. 

Soldiers  like  movement — we  were  on  the  move.  Every 
one's  spirits  were  up  and  the  animals  were  frisky  and 
high-stepping  in  the  brisk  air.  Chains  rattled  as  some 
of  the  lead  pairs  mussed  up  the  traces  and  were  brought 
back  into  alignment  by  the  drivers.  The  cannoneers, 
muffled  in  great  coats,  hung  on  the  caisson  seats  and 
chided  the  drivers. 

We  were  off.  WThere  we  were  going,  seemed  to  make 
no  difference.  Rumours  could  never  be  depended  upon, 
so  none  of  us  knew  our  destination,  but  all  of  us  hoped 
that  we  were  going  into  action.  Every  man  in  the  bat- 
tery felt  that  the  schooling  was  over  and  that  the  battery, 
if  given  a  chance,  could  prove  that  it  needed  no  further 
training. 

At  the  same  time,  some  of  the  men  expressed  the  fear 
that  we  were  on  our  way  to  some  other  training  camp 
for  some  post-graduate  course  in  firing  or  maybe  for 
the  purpose  of  instructing  other  less  advanced  batteries. 
The  final  consensus  of  opinion  was,  however,  that  "beef- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  119 

ing"  about  our  prospects  wouldn't  change  them,  and  that 
anything  was  better  than  staying  in  the  same  place  for- 
ever. 

Two  miles  from  the  post  the  road  crossed  the  rail- 
road tracks.  The  crossing  bore  a  name  as  everything 
else  did  in  that  land  of  poetical  nomenclature.  There  was 
only  one  house  there.  It  was  an  old  grey  stone  cottage, 
its  walls  covered  with  vines,  and  its  garden  full  of 
shrubbery.  It  was  occupied  by  three  persons,  the  old 
crossing-tender,  his  wife — and  one  other.  That  other 
was  Jeanne.    Jeanne  was  their  daughter. 

We  had  seen  her  many  times  as  she  opened  the  cross- 
ing gates  for  traffic  on  the  road.  She  was  about  sixteen 
years  old.  Her  ankles  were  encased  in  thick  grey  woollen 
hose  of  her  own  knitting  and,  where  they  emerged  from 
her  heavy  wooden  shoes,  it  looked  as  if  every  move 
in  her  clumsy  footgear  might  break  them  off. 

As  we  approached  the  crossing,  Gallagher,  who  rode 
one  of  the  lead  pair  on  piece  No.  2,  began  to  give  vent 
to  his  fine  Irish  tenor.     Gallagher  was  singing: 

"We  were  sailing  along 

On  Moonlight  bay, 

You   could  hear  the  voices   ringing, 

They  seemed  to  say, 
'You  have  stolen  my  heart 

Now,  don't  go  away,' 

As  we  kissed  and  said  good-bye 

On  Moonlight  bay." 


It  would  almost  have  seemed  that  there  was  need  of 
some  explanation  for  Gallagher's  musical  demonstration 
on  this  cold,  dark  morning,  but  none  was  demanded. 
Gallagher  apparently  knew  what  he  was  doing. 


120  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

His  pair  of  lead  horses  were  walking  in  much  too 
orderly  a  fashion  for  the  occasion.  Apparently  the 
occasion  demanded  a  little  greater  show  of  dash  and 
spirit.  Gallagher  sunk  his  spurs  into  the  flanks  of  his 
mount  and  punched  its  mate  in  the  ribs  with  the  heavy 
handle  of  his  riding  crop. 

The  leads  lunged  forward  against  their  collars.  The 
sudden  plunge  was  accompanied  by  a  jangle  of  chains 
as  the  traces  tightened.  The  gun  carriage  jolted  and 
the  cannoneers  swore  at  the  unnecessary  bouncing. 

"Easy,  Zigg-Zigg,  whoa,  Fini."  Gallagher  pulled  on 
the  lines  as  he  shouted  in  a  calculated  pitch  the  French 
names  of  his  horses.  And  then  the  reason  for  Galla- 
gher's conduct  developed. 

A  pair  of  wooden  shutters  on  a  first  floor  window  of 
the  gate-tender's  cottage  opened  outward.  In  the  win- 
dow was  a  lamp.  The  yellow  rays  from  it  shone  up- 
ward and  revealed  a  tumbled  mass  of  long  black  hair, 
black  eyes  that  gleamed,  red  cheeks  and  red  lips.  Then 
a  sweet  voice  said: 

"Gude-bye,  Meeky." 

"Orry  wore,  Jeen,"  replied  Gallagher. 

"Apres  la  guerre,  Meeky,"  said  Jeanne. 

"Orry  wore,  Jeen,"  repeated  Gallagher. 

"Oh,  Jeanie,  dear,  please  call  me  'Meeky,'  "  sang  out 
one  of  the  men,  astride  one  of  the  wheel  pair  of  the 
same  gun. 

The  window  had  closed,  but  before  the  light  disap- 
peared, black  eyes  flashed  hate  at  the  jester,  and  Galla- 
gher, himself,  two  horses  ahead,  turned  in  the  saddle 
and  told  the  taunter  to  shut  his  mouth,  observing  at  the 
same  time  that  "some  guys  didn't  know  a  decent  girl 
when  they  saw  one." 

We  rode  on.     Soon,  on  the  left,  the  sun  came  up  cold 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  121 


out  of  Switzerland's  white  topped  ridges  miles  away, 
and  smiling  frigidly  across  the  snow-clad  neutral  Alps, 
dispelled  the  night  mist  in  our  part  of  the  world. 

The  battery  warmed  under  its  glow.  Village  after 
village  we  passed  through,  returning  the  polite  salutes 
of  early  rising  grand-sires  who  uncovered  their  grey 
heads,  or  wrinkled,  pink-faced  grandmothers,  who  waved 
kerchiefs  from  gabled  windows  beneath  the  thatch  and 
smiled  the  straight  and  dry-lipped  smile  of  toothless  age 
as  they  wished  us  good  fortune  in  the  war. 

We  messed  at  midday  by  the  roadside,  green  fields 
and  hills  of  France,  our  table  decorations,  cold  beef 
and  dry  bread,  our  fare,  with  canteens  full  to  wash  it 
down.  When  the  horses  had  tossed  their  nose-bags  fu- 
tilely  for  the  last  grains  of  oats,  and  the  captain's  watch 
had  timed  the  rest  at  three-quarters  of  the  hour,  we 
mounted  and  resumed  the  march. 

The  equipment  rode  easy  on  man  and  beast.  Packs 
had  been  shifted  to  positions  of  maximum  comfort. 
The  horses  were  still  fresh  enough  to  need  tight  rein. 
The  men  had  made  final  adjustments  to  the  chin  straps 
on  their  new  steel  helmets  and  these  sat  well  on  heads 
that  never  before  had  been  topped  with  armoured  cover- 
ing. In  addition  to  all  other  equipment,  each  man  car- 
ried two  gas  masks.  Our  top  sergeant  had  an  explana- 
tion for  me  as  to  this  double  gas  mask  equipment. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it,"  he  said,  as  he  ruthlessly  ac- 
cepted the  next-to-the-last  twenty-five  centime  Egyptian 
cigarette  from  my  proffered  case.  I  winced  as  he  delib- 
erately tore  the  paper  from  that  precious  fine  smoke  and 
inserted  the  filler  in  his  mouth  for  a  chew. 

"You  see,  England  and  France  and  us  is  all  Allies," 
he  said.  "Both  of  them  loves  us  and  we  love  both  of 
them.     We  don't,  know  nothing  about  gas  masks  and 


V 


122  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


they  knows  all  there  is  to  know  about  them.  The  French 
say  their  gas  mask  is  the  best.  The  British  say  their  gas 
mask  is  the  best. 

"Well,  you  see,  they  both  offer  us  gas  masks.  Now 
Uncle  Sam  don't  want  to  hurt  nobody's  feelings,  so  he 
says,  'Gentlemen,  we  won't  fight  about  this  here  mat- 
ter. We'll  just  use  both  gas  masks,  and  give  each  of 
them  a  try-out' 

"So  here  we  are  carrying  two  of  these  human  nose- 
bags. The  first  time  we  get  into  a  mess  of  this  here 
gas,  somebody  will  send  the  order  around  to  change 
masks  in  the  middle  of  it — just  to  find  out  which  is  the 
best  one." 

The  sergeant,  with  seeming  malice,  spat  some  of  that 
fine  cigarette  on  a  roadside  kilometer  stone  and  closed 
the  international  prospects  of  the  subject. 

Our  battery  jangled  through  a  tunnelled  ridge  and 
emerged  on  the  other  side  just  as  a  storm  of  rain  and 
hail  burst  with  mountain  fury.  The  hailstones  rattled 
on  our  metal  helmets  and  the  men  laughed  at  the  sound 
as  they  donned  slickers.  The  brakes  grated  on  the  cais- 
son wheels  as  we  took  the  steep  down-grade.  The  road 
hugged  the  valley  wall  which  was  a  rugged,  granite  cliff. 

I  rode  on  ahead  through  the  stinging  hailstones  and 
watched  our  battery  as  it  passed  through  the  historic 
rock-hewn  gateway  that  is  the  entrance  to  the  mediaeval 
town  of  Besangon.  The  portal  is  located  at  a  sharp  turn 
of  the  river.  The  gateway  is  carved  through  a  moun- 
tain spur.  Ancient  doors  of  iron-studded  oak  still  guard 
the  entrance,  but  they  have  long  since  stood  open.  Bat- 
tlements that  once  knew  the  hand  of  Vaubon  frown 
down  in  ancient  menace  to  any  invader. 

No  Roman  conqueror  at  the  head  of  his  invading 
legions   ever   rode   through   that   triumphal    arch   with 


CAPT.    CHEVALIER,    OF   THE    FRENCH    ARMY,    INSTRUCTING    AMERICAN 
OFFICERS    IK   THE    USE    OF  THE    ONE-POUNDER 


■■I 


IN   THE   COURSE    OF   ITS   PROGRESS   TO   THE   VALLEY   OF  THE   VESLE    THIS    L55    MM. 
GUN    AND    OTHERS    OF    ITS    KIND    WERE    EDUCATING    THE    BOCHE    TO 
RESPECT   AMERICA.       THE    TRACTOR    HAULS    IT   ALONG   STEADILY 
AND  SLOWLY,    I.IKE    A   STEAM    ROLLER 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  123 


greater  pride  than  rode  our  little  captain  at  the  head 
of  his  battery.  Our  little  captain  was  in  stature  the 
smallest  man  in  our  battery,  but  he  compensated  for 
that  by  riding  the  tallest  horse  in  the  battery. 

He  carried  his  head  at  a  jaunty  angle.  He  wore  his 
helmet  at  a  nifty  tilt,  with  the  chin  strap  riding  between 
his  underlip  and  his  dimpled,  upheld  chin.  He  carried 
his  shoulders  back,  and  his  chest  out.  The  reins  hung 
gracefully  in  his  left  hand,  and  he  had  assumed  a  rather 
moving-picture  pose  of  the  right  fist  on  his  right  hip. 
Behind  him  flew  the  red  guidon,  its  stirruped  staff  held 
stiffly  at  the  right  arm's  length  by  the  battery  standard 
bearer. 

Both  of  them  smiled — expansive  smiles  of  pride — into 
the  clicking  lens  of  my  camera.  I  forgave  our  little 
captain  for  his  smile  of  pride.  I  knew  that  six  weeks 
before  that  very  day  our  little  captain  had  fitted  into 
the  scheme  of  civilian  life  as  a  machinery  salesman  from 
Indiana.  And  there  that  day,  he  rode  at  the  head  of  his 
two  hundred  and  fifty  fighting  men  and  horses,  at  the 
head  of  his  guns,  rolling  down  that  road  in  France  on 
the  way  to  the  front. 

In  back  of  him  and  towering  upward,  was  that  his- 
toric rock  that  had  known  the  tread  and  passage  of  count- 
less martial  footsteps  down  through  the  centuries.  Be- 
hind him,  the  gun  carriages  rattled  through  the  frown- 
ing portal.  Oh,  if  the  folks  back  on  the  Wabash  could 
have  seen  him  then! 

We  wound  through  the  crooked  narrow  streets  of 
Besangon,  our  steel-tired  wheels  bounding  and  banging 
over  the  cobblestones.  Townsfolk  waved  to  us  from 
windows  and  doorways.  Old  women  in  the  market 
square  abandoned  their  baskets  of  beet  roots  and  beans 
to  flutter  green  stained  aprons  in  our  direction.     Our 


1 24  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

column  was  flanked  by  clattering  phalanxes  of  wooden- 
shoed  street  gamins,  who  must  have  known  more  about 
our  movements  than  we  did,  because  they  all  shouted, 
•'Gude-bye." 

Six  weeks'  familiarity  between  these  same  artillerymen 
on  town  leave  and  these  same  urchins  had  temporised 
the  blind  admiration  that  caused  them  first  to  greet 
our  men  solely  with  shouts  of  "Vive  les  Americains." 
Now  that  they  knew  us  better,  they  alternated  the  old 
greeting  with  shouts  of  that  all-meaning  and  also  mean- 
ingless French  expression,  "Oo  la  la." 

Our  way  led  over  the  stone,  spanned  bridge  that 
crossed  the  sluggish  river  through  the  town,  and  on  to 
the  hilly  outskirts  where  mounted  French  guides  met 
and  directed  us  to  the  railroad  loading  platform. 

The  platform  was  a  busy  place.  The  regimental  sup- 
ply company  which  was  preceding  us  over  the  road  was 
engaged  in  forcibly  persuading  the  last  of  its  mules  to 
enter  the  toy  freight  cars  which  bore  on  the  side  the 
printed  legend,  "Hommes  40,  Chevaux  8." 

Several  arclights  and  one  or  two  acetylene  flares  il- 
luminated the  scene.  It  was  raining  fitfully,  but  not 
enough  to  dampen  the  spirits  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  workers 
who  wrestled  with  canvas  tarpaulins  and  foraged  mate- 
rials to  construct  a  make-shift  shelter  for  a  free  coffee 
and  sandwich  counter. 

Their  stoves  were  burning  brightly  and  the  hurriedly 
erected  stove  pipes,  leaning  wearily  against  the  stone 
wall  enclosing  the  quay,  topped  the  wall  like  a  miniature 
of  the  sky  line  of  Pittsburgh.  The  boiling  coffee  pots 
gave  off  a  delicious  steam.  In  the  language  of  our  bat- 
tery, the  " Whime  say"  delivered  the  goods. 

During  it  all  the  mules  brayed  and  the  supply  com- 
pany men  swore.     Most  humans,  cognizant  of  the  prin- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  125 

ciples  of  safety  first,  are  respectful  of  the  rear  quarters 
of  a  mule.  We  watched  one  disrespecter  of  these  prin- 
ciples invite  what  might  have  been  called  "mulecide" 
with  utter  contempt  for  the  consequences.  He  deliber- 
ately stood  in  the  dangerous  immediate  rear  of  one  par- 
ticularly onery  mule,  and  kicked  the  mule. 

His  name  was  "Missouri  Slim,"  as  he  took  pains  to 
inform  the  object  of  his  caress.  He  further  announced 
to  all  present,  men  and  mules,  that  he  had  been  brought 
up  with  mules  from  babyhood  and  knew  mules  from  the 
tips  of  their  long  ears  to  the  ends  of  their  hard  tails. 

The  obdurate  animal  in  question  had  refused  to  enter 
the  door  of  the  car  that  had  been  indicated  as  his  Pull- 
man. "Missouri  Slim"  called  three  other  ex-natives  of 
Champ  Clark's  state  to  his  assistance.  They  fearlessly 
put  a  shoulder  under  each  of  the  mule's  quarters.  Then 
they  grunted  a  unanimous  "heave,"  and  lifted  the  strug- 
gling animal  off  its  feet.  As  a  perfect  matter  of  course, 
they  walked  right  into  the  car  with  him  with  no  more 
trouble  than  if  he  had  been  an  extra  large  bale  of  hay. 

"Wonderful  mule  handling  in  this  here  army,"  re- 
marked a  quiet,  mild-mannered  man  in  uniform,  beside 
whom  I  happened  to  be  standing.  He  spoke  with  a  slow, 
almost  sleepy,  drawl.  He  was  the  new  veterinarian  of 
the  supply  company,  and  there  were  a  number  of  things 
that  were  new  to  him,  as  his  story  revealed.  He  was  the 
first  homesick  horse  doctor  I  ever  met. 

"I  come  from  a  small  town  out  in  Iowa,"  he  told  me. 
"I  went  to  a  veterinary  college  and  had  a  nice  little  prac- 
tice,— sorter  kept  myself  so  busy  that  I  never  got  much 
of  a  chance  to  think  about  this  here  war.  But  one  day, 
about  two  months  ago,  I  got  a  letter  from  the  War  De- 
partment down  in  Washington. 

"They  said  the  hoss  doctor  college  had  given  them 


126  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


my  name  as  one  of  the  graduates  and  the  letter  said 
that  the  War  Department  was  making  out  a  list  of 
hoss  doctors.  The  letter  asked  me  to  fill  out  the  blank 
and  send  it  to  Washington. 

11  'Joe,'  my  wife  says  to  me,  'this  here  is  an  honour  that 
the  country  is  paying  to  you.  The  Government  just 
wants  the  names  of  the  patriotic  professional  citizens  of 
the  country.'  So  we  filled  out  the  blank  and  mailed  it 
and  forgot  all  about  it. 

"Well,  about  two  weeks  later,  I  got  a  letter  from 
Washington  telling  me  to  go  at  once  to  Douglas,  Arizona. 
It  sorter  scared  the  wife  and  me  at  first  because  neither 
of  us  had  ever  been  out  of  Iowa,  but  I  told  her  that 
I  was  sure  it  wasn't  anything  serious — I  thought  that 
Uncle  Sam  just  had  some  sick  hosses  down  there  and 
wanted  me  to  go  down  and  look  them  over. 

"Well,  the  wife  put  another  shirt  and  a  collar  and 
an  extra  pair  of  socks  in  my  hand  satchel  along  with 
my  instruments  and  I  kissed  her  and  the  little  boy  good- 
bye and  told  them  that  I  would  hurry  up  and  prescribe 
for  the  Government  hosses  and  be  back  in  about  five 
days. 

"Two  days  later  I  landed  in  Douglas,  and  a  major 
shoved  me  into  a  uniform  and  told  me  I  was  commis- 
sioned as  a  hoss  doctor  lieutenant.  That  afternoon  I 
was  put  on  a  train  with  a  battery  and  we  were  on  our 
way  east.  Six  days  later  we  were  on  the  ocean.  We 
landed  somewhere  in  France  and  moved  way  out  here. 

"My  wife  was  expecting  me  back  in  five  days  and  here 
it  is  I've  been  away  two  months  and  I  haven't  had  a 
letter  from  her  and  now  we're  moving  up  to  the  front. 
It  seems  to  me  like  I've  been  away  from  Iowa  for  ten 
years,  and  I  guess  I  am  a  little  homesick,  but  it  sure  is 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  127 

a  comfort  to  travel  with  an  outfit  that  knows  how  to 
handle  mules  like  this  one  does." 

The  supply  company  completed  loading,  and  the  home- 
sick horse  doctor  boarded  the  last  car  as  the  train  moved 
down  the  track.  Our  battery  took  possession  of  the 
platform.  A  train  of  empties  was  shunted  into  position 
and  we  began  loading  guns  and  wagons  on  the  flat  cars 
and  putting  the  animals  into  the  box  cars. 

Considerable  confusion  accompanied  this  operation. 
The  horses  seemed  to  have  decided  scruples  against  en- 
tering the  cars.  It  was  dark  and  the  rain  came  down 
miserably.  The  men  swore.  There  was  considerable 
kicking  on  the  part  of  the  men  as  well  as  the  animals. 

I  noticed  one  group  that  was  gathered  around  a  plung- 
ing team  of  horses.  The  group  represented  an  entangle- 
ment of  rope,  harness,  horses  and  men.  I  heard  a  clang 
of  metal  and  saw  the  flash  of  two  steel-shod  hoofs.  A 
little  corporal,  holding  his  head  up  with  both  hands, 
backed  out  of  the  group, — backed  clear  across  the  plat- 
form and  sat  down  on  a  bale  of  hay. 

I  went  to  his  assistance.  Blood  was  trickling  through 
his  fingers.  I  washed  his  two  scalp  wounds  with  water 
from  a  canteen  and  applied  first  aid  bandages. 

"Just  my  luck,"  I  heard  my  patient  mumbling  as  I 
swathed  his  head  in  white  strips  and  imparted  to  him 
the  appearance  of  a  first-class  front  line  casualty. 

"You're  lucky,"  I  told  him  truthfully.  "Not  many 
men  get  kicked  in  the  head  by  a  horse  and  escape  with- 
out a  fractured  skull." 

"That  isn't  it,"  he  said ;  "you  see  for  the  last  week 
I've  been  wearing  that  steel  helmet — that  cast-iron  som- 
brero that  weighs  so  much  it  almost  breaks  your  neck, 
and  two  minutes  before  that  long-legged  baby  kicked 
me,  the  tin  hat  fell  off  my  head." 


128  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

By  the  time  our  battery  had  been  loaded,  another 
battery  was  waiting  to  move  on  to  the  platform.  Our 
captain  went  down  the  length  of  the  train  examining 
the  halter  straps  in  the  horse  cars  and  assuring  himself 
of  the  correct  apportionment  of  men  in  each  car.  Then 
we  moved  out  on  what  developed  to  be  a  wild  night  ride. 

The  horse  has  been  described  as  man's  friend  and 
no  one  questions  that  a  horse  and  a  man,  if  placed  out 
in  any  large  open  space,  are  capable  of  getting  along  to 
their  mutual  comfort.  But  when  army  regulations  and 
the  requirements  of  military  transportation  place  eight 
horses  and  four  men  in  the  same  toy  French  box  car 
and  then  pat  all  twelve  of  them  figuratively  on  the  neck 
and  tell  them  to  lie  down  together  and  sleep  through 
an  indefinite  night's  ride,  it  is  not  only  probable,  but  it 
is  certain,  that  the  legendary  comradeship  of  the  man 
and  the  horse  ceases.  The  described  condition  does  not 
encompass  the  best  understood  relation  of  the  two  as 
travelling  companions. 

On  our  military  trains  in  France,  the  reservations  of 
space  for  the  human  and  dumb  occupants  of  the  same 
car  were  something  as  follows:  Four  horses  occupied 
the  forward  half  of  the  car.  Four  more  horses  occu- 
pied the  rear  half  of  the  car.  Four  men  occupied  the 
remaining  space.  The  eight  four-footed  animals  are 
packed  in  lengthwise  with  their  heads  towards  the  cen- 
tral space  between  the  two  side  doors.  The  central 
space  is  reserved  for  the  four  two-footed  animals. 

Then  the  train  moves.  If  the  movement  is  forward 
and  sudden,  as  it  usually  is,  the  four  horses  in  the  for- 
ward end  of  the  car  involuntarily  obey  the  rules  of  in- 
ertia and  slide  into  the  central  space.  If  the  movement 
of  the  train  is  backward  and  equally  sudden,  the  four 
horses  in  the  rear  end  of  the  car  obey  the  same  rule 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  129 

and  plunge  forward  into  the  central  space.  On  the 
whole,  night  life  for  the  men  in  the  straw  on  the  floor 
of  the  central  space  is  a  lively  existence,  while  "riding 
the  rattlers  with  a  horse  outfit." 

Our  battery  found  it  so.  I  rode  a  number  of  miles 
that  night  sitting  with  four  artillerymen  in  the  central 
space  between  the  side  doors  which  had  been  closed 
upon  orders.  From  the  roof  of  the  car,  immediately 
above  our  heads,  an  oil  lantern  swung  and  swayed  with 
every  jolt  of  the  wheels  and  cast  a  feeble  light  down 
upon  our  conference  in  the  straw.  We  occupied  a  small 
square  area  which  we  had  attempted  to  particularise  by 
roping  it  off. 

On  either  side  were  the  blank  surfaces  of  the  closed 
doors.  To  either  end  were  the  heads  of  four  nervous 
animals,  eight  ponderous  hulks  of  steel-shod  horseflesh, 
high  strung  and  fidgety,  verging  almost  on  panic  under 
the  unusual  conditions  they  were  enduring,  and  subject 
at  any  minute  to  new  fits  of  excitement. 

We  sat  at  their  feet  as  we  rattled  along.  I  recalled 
the  scene  of  the  loose  cannon  plunging  about  the  crowded 
deck  of  a  rolling  vessel  at  sea  and  related  Hugo's  thrill- 
ing description  to  my  companions. 

"Yeah,"  observed  Shoemaker,  driver  of  the  "wheelers" 
on  No.  4  piece,  "Yeah,  but  there  ain't  no  mast  to  climb 
up  on  and  get  out  of  the  way  on  in  this  here  boxcar." 

"I'd  rather  take  my  chances  with  a  cannon  any  day," 
said  'Beady'  Watson,  gunner.  "A  cannon  will  stay  put 
when  you  fix  it.  There's  our  piece  out  on  the  flat  car 
and  she's  all  lashed  and  blocked.  It  would  take  a  wreck 
to  budge  her  off  that  flat.  I  wish  the  B.  C.  had  let  me 
ride  with  the  old  gun  out  there.  It  would  be  a  little 
colder  but  a  lot  healthier.  Try  to  go  to  sleep  in  here 
and  you'll  wake  up  with  a  horse  sitting  on  you." 


i3o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"Where  do  you  suppose  we  are  going  anyway?"  asked 
Slater,  fuse  cutter  in  the  same  section.  "I'm  strong  for 
travel,  but  I  always  like  to  read  the  program  before  we 
start  to  ramble.  For  all  we  know  we  might  be  on  our 
way  to  Switzerland  or  Italy  or  Spain  or  Egypt  or  some- 
where." 

"Why  don't  you  go  up  and  ask  the  Captain?"  sug- 
gested Boyle,  corporal  in  charge  of  the  car.  "Maybe  the 
Colonel  gave  him  a  special  message  to  deliver  to  you 
about  our  dusty-nation.  You  needn't  worry  though. 
They  ain't  going  to  bowl  us  out  of  France  for  some  time 

yet." 

"Well,  if  we're  just  joy-riding  around  France,"  re- 
plied Slater,  "I  hope  we  stop  over  to  feed  the  horses 
at  Monte  Carlo.  I've  heard  a  lot  about  that  joint.  They 
say  that  they  run  the  biggest  crap  game  in  the  world 
there,  and  the  police  lay  off  the  place  because  the  Gov- 
ernor of  the  State  or  the  King  or  something,  banks  the 
game.  They  tell  me  he  uses  straight  bones  and  I  figure 
a  man  could  clean  up  big  if  he  hit  the  game  on  a  pay- 
day." 

"Listen,  kid,  you've  got  this  tip  wrong,"  said  Shoe- 
maker. "If  there's  anything  happens  to  start  a  riot 
among  these  horses,  you  are  going  to  find  that  you're 
gambling  with  death.  And  if  we  ever  get  off  this  train, 
I  think  we  have  a  date  with  Kaiser  Bill." 

"I've  got  a  cousin  somewhere  in  the  German  army. 
He  spells  his  'Shoemaker'  with  a  'u.'  My  dad  told  me 
that  my  grandfather  and  this  cousin's  grandfather  had 
a  business  disagreement  over  a  sauerkraut  factory  some 
time  before  the  Civil  War  and  my  grandfather  left 
Germany.  Since  then,  there  ain't  been  no  love  lost 
between  the  branches  of  the  family,  but  we  did  hear 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  131 

that  Cousin  Hans  had  left  the  sauerkraut  business  and 
was  packing  a  howitzer  for  the  Kaiser." 

"Well,  I  hope  we  come  across  him  for  your  sake," 
said  Watson.  "It's  kinda  tough  luck  to  get  cheated  out 
of  a  big  business  like  that,  but  then  you  must  remember 
that  if  your  cousin's  grandfather  hadn't  pulled  the 
dirty  on  your  grandfather,  your  grandfather  might  never 
have  gone  to  America  and  most  likely  you'd  still  be 
a  German." 

"I  guess  there's  some  sense  in  that,  too,"  replied  Shoe- 
maker; "wouldn't  that  been  hell  if  I'd  been  on  the  other 
side  in  this  war?  But  anyhow,  I  do  hope  we  run  into 
Cousin  Hans  somewhere." 

The  horses  had  been  comparatively  quiet  for  some 
time,  but  now  they  seemed  to  be  growing  restless.  They 
pricked  their  ears  and  we  knew  something  was  bother- 
ing them.  The  discussion  stopped  so  that  we  could  listen 
better. 

Above  the  rattle  of  the  train,  there  came  to  us  the 
sound  of  firing.  It  seemed  to  come  from  the  direction 
in  which  we  were  going.  With  surprising  quickness, 
the  explosions  grew  louder.  We  were  not  only  speed- 
ing toward  the  sounds  of  conflict,  but  the  conflict  itself 
seemed  to  be  speeding  toward  us. 

Then  came  a  crash  unmistakably  near.  One  of  the 
horses  in  the  forward  end  reared,  and  his  head  thumped 
the  roof  of  the  car.  Once  again  on  four  feet,  he  pranced 
nervously  and  tossed  his  blood-wet  forelock.  Immedi- 
ately the  other  horses  began  stamping. 

Another  crash ! — this  time  almost  directly  overhead. 
In  the  light  of  the  swinging  lantern,  I  could  see  the 
terror  in  the  eyes  of  the  frightened  brutes.  We  clung 
to  their  halters  and  tried  to  quiet  them  but  they  lifted 
us  oflf  our  feet. 


i32  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"Put  a  twitch  on  that  one's  nose  and  hold  him  down," 
Boyle  ordered. 

"Gosh,"  said  Slater,  obeying,  "we  must  be  right  up 
on  the  front  line.  Hope  they  don't  stop  this  train  in 
No  Man's  Land.     Hold  still,  you  crazy  b " 

"Cousin  Hans  must  have  heard  you  talking,"  Watson 
shouted  to  Shoemaker.  "Maybe  you're  going  to  see 
him  quicker  than  you  expected." 

The  train  was  slowing  down.  The  brakes  shrieked 
and  grated  as  we  came  to  a  jerky  stop.  Three  of  us 
braced  ourselves  at  the  heads  of  the  four  horses  in  the 
rear  of  the  car  and  prevented  them  from  sliding  on  top 
of  us.  Boyle  and  Slater  were  doing  their  best  to  quiet 
the  forward  four.  The  explosions  overhead  increased. 
Now  we  heard  the  report  of  field  pieces  so  close  that 
they  seemed  to  be  almost  alongside  the  track. 

There  came  a  sharp  bang  at  one  of  the  side  doors, 
and  I  thought  I  recognised  the  sound  of  the  lead-loaded 
handle  of  the  captain's  riding  whip.  His  voice,  coming 
to  us  a  minute  later  above  the  trampling  and  kicking  of 
the  panic-stricken  animals,  verified  my  belief. 

"Darken  that  lantern,"  he  shouted.  "Keep  all  lights 
out  and  keep  your  helmets  on.  Stay  in  the  cars  and 
hang  on  to  the  horses.  There  is  an  air  raid  on  right 
above  us." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Boyle,  and  we  heard  the  captain 
run  to  the  next  car.  I  blew  out  the  light  and  we  were 
in  complete  darkness,  with  eight  tossing,  plunging  horses 
that  kicked  and  reared  at  every  crash  of  the  guns  nearby 
or  burst  of  the  shells  overhead. 

We  hung  on  while  the  air  battle  went  on  above.  One 
horse  went  down  on  his  knees  and  in  his  frantic  strug- 
gles to  regain  his  feet,  almost  kicked  the  feet  from  un- 
der the  animal  beside  him. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT" 133 

At  times,  thunderous  detonations  told  us  that  aerial 
bombs  were  doing  their  work  near  at  hand.  We  sup- 
posed correctly  that  we  were  near  some  town  not  far 
behind  the  lines,  and  that  the  German  was  paying  it  a 
night  visit  with  some  of  his  heaviest  visiting  cards. 

I  opened  one  side  door  just  a  crack  and  looked  out. 
The  darkness  above  blossomed  with  blinding  blotches 
.of  fire  that  flashed  on  and  off.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
sky  were  a  canopy  of  black  velvet  perforated  with 
hundreds  of  holes  behind  which  dazzling  lights  passed 
back  and  forth,  flashing  momentary  gleams  of  brilliance 
through  the  punctures.  Again,  this  vision  would  pass  as 
a  luminous  dripping  mass  would  poise  itself  on  high  and 
cast  a  steady  white  glare  that  revealed  clusters  of  grey 
smoke  puffs  of  exploded  shrapnel. 

We  had  to  close  the  door  because  the  flashes  added  to 
the  terror  of  the  horses,  but  the  aerial  activity  passed 
almost  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come  and  left  our  train  un- 
touched. As  the  raiding  planes  went  down  the  wind, 
followed  always  by  the  poppings  of  the  anti-aircraft 
guns,  the  sound  of  the  conflict  grew  distant.  We  got 
control  over  the  horses  although  they  still  trembled  with 
fright. 

There  came  another  rap  at  the  door  and  I  hurriedly 
accepted  the  captain's  invitation  to  accompany  him  for- 
ward to  a  first-class  coach  where  I  spent  the  remainder 
of  the  night  stretched  out  on  the  cushions.  As  our  train 
resumed  its  way  into  the  darkness,  I  dreamed  of  racing 
before  a  stampede  of  wild  horses. 


134         "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

CHAPTER  VII 

INTO  THE  LINE THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SHOT  IN  THE  WAR 

A  damp,  chill,  morning  mist  made  the  dawn  even 
greyer  as  our  battery  train  slid  into  a  loading  platform 
almost  under  the  walls  of  a  large  manufacturing  plant 
engaged  in  producing  war  materials. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  section  chiefs  reported 
that  not  a  man  had  been  injured,  and  not  so  much  as  a 
leg  broken  in  the  crowded  horse  cars,  every  man  in  the 
battery  now  declared  the  absence  of  any  doubt  but  the 
air  raid  had  been  directly  aimed  at  Battery  A. 

"There  might  be  a  spy  in  this  here  very  outfit,"  said 
Texas'  Tinsdale,  the  battery  alarmist.  "Else  how  could 
them  German  aviators  have  known  that  Battery  A  was 
on  the  road  last  night?  They  knew  we  was  on  the  way 
to  the  front  and  they  tried  to  get  us." 

"Hire  a  hall,"  shouted  the  gruffy  top  sergeant.  "We've 
got  two  hours  to  unload.  A  lot  of  you  fireside  veterans 
get  busy.  Gun  crews  get  to  work  on  the  flats  and  drivers 
unload  horses.  No  chow  until  we're  ready  to  move 
out." 

The  sign  on  a  station  lamp-post  told  us  the  name  of  the 
town.  It  was  Jarville.  But  it  jarred  nothing  in  our 
memories.  None  of  us  had  ever  heard  of  it  before. 
I  asked  the  captain  where  we  were. 

"Just  about  thirty  miles  behind  the  front,"  he  replied. 
"We  are  moving  up  to  our  last  billets  as  soon  as  we  un- 
load and  feed." 

The  horses  had  made  the  ride  wearing  their  harness, 
some  of  which  had  become  entangled  and  broken  in  tran- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  135 

sit.     A  number  of  saddles  had  slipped  from  backs  and 
were  down  behind  forelegs. 

"We're  learning  something  every  minute,"  the  cap- 
tain exclaimed.  "American  army  regulations  call  for 
the  removal  of  all  harness  from  the  horses  before  they 
are  put  into  the  cars,  but  the  French  have  learned  that 
that  is  a  dangerous  practice  over  here. 

"You  can't  unload  unharnessed  horses  and  get  them 
hitched  to  the  guns  as  quick  as  you  can  harnessed  horses. 
The  idea  is  this.  We're  pretty  close  behind  the  lines. 
A  German  air  party  might  make  this  unloading  platform 
a  visit  at  any  time  and  if  any  of  them  are  in  the  air 
and  happen  to  see  us  unloading,  they'd  sure  call  on  us. 

"The  French  have  learned  that  the  only  way  to  make 
the  best  of  such  a  situation,  if  it  should  arise,  is  to  have 
the  horses  already  harnessed  so  that  they  can  be  run 
out  of  the  cars  quickly,  hitched  to  the  guns  in  a  jiffy  and 
hurried  away.  If  the  horses  are  in  the  cars  unharnessed, 
and  all  of  the  harness  is  being  carried  in  other  cars,  con- 
fusion is  increased  and  there  is  a  greater  prospect  of 
your  losing  your  train,  horses,  guns  and  everything  from 
an  incendiary  bomb,  not  to  mention  low  flying  machine 
work." 

His  explanation  revealed  a  promising  attitude  that  I 
found  in  almost  all  American  soldiers  of  all  ranks  that 
I  had  encountered  up  to  that  time  in  France.  The  foun- 
dation of  the  attitude  was  a  willingness  to  admit  igno- 
rance of  new  conditions  and  an  eagerness  to  possess 
themselves  of  all  knowledge  that  the  French  and  British 
had  acquired  through  bitter  and  costly  experience. 

Further  than  that,  the  American  inclination  pushed 
the  soldier  students  to  look  beyond  even  those  then  ac- 
cepted standards.  The  tendency  was  to  improve  beyond 
the  French  and  British,  to  apply  new  American  prin- 


136  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ciples  of  time  or  labour-saving  to  simple  operation,  to 
save  man-power  and  horseflesh  by  sane  safety  appli- 
ances, to  increase  efficiency,  speed,  accuracy — in  a  word, 
their  aim  was  to  make  themselves  the  best  fighting  men 
in  the  Allied  cause. 

One  instance  of  this  is  worthy  of  recounting.  I  came 
upon  the  young  Russian  who  was  the  battery  saddler. 
He  was  a  citizen  of  the  United  States  whose  uniform 
he  wore,  but  he  was  such  a  new  citizen,  that  he  hardly 
spoke  English.  I  found  him  handling  a  small  piece  of 
galvanised  iron  and  a  horse  shoe.  He  appeared  to  be 
trying  to  fit  the  rumpled  piece  of  metal  into  the  shoe. 

In  his  broken  English  he  explained  that  he  was  trying 
to  fashion  a  light  metal  plate  that  could  be  easily  placed 
between  a  horse's  shoe  and  the  hoof,  to  protect  the  frog 
of  the  foot  from  nails  picked  up  on  the  road.  With  all 
soldiers  wearing  hobnailed  boots,  the  roads  were  full  of 
those  sharp  bits  of  metal  which  had  caused  serious  losses 
of  horseflesh  through  lameness  and  blood  poisoning. 

The  unloading  had  continued  under  the  eyes  of  smil- 
ing French  girls  in  bloomers  who  were  just  departing 
from  their  work  on  the  early  morning  shift  in  the  muni- 
tion factory  beside  the  station.  These  were  the  first 
American  soldiers  they  had  seen  and  they  were  free  to 
pass  comment  upon  our  appearance.  So  were  the  men 
of  Battery  A,  who  overlooked  the  oiled,  grimed  faces 
and  hands  of  the  bloomered  beauties,  and  announced  the 
general  verdict  that  "they  sure  were  fat  little  devils." 

The  unloading  completed,  a  scanty  snack  consisting  of 
two  unbuttered  slices  of  white  bread  with  a  hunk  of  cold 
meat  and  maybe  the  bite  of  an  onion,  had  been  put  away 
by  the  time  the  horses'  nose  bags  were  empty.  With  a 
French  guide  in  the  lead,  we  moved  off  the  platform, 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  137 


rattled  along  under  a  railroad  viaduct,  and  down  the 
main  street  of  Jarville,  which  was  large  enough  to  boast 
street  car  tracks  and  a  shell-damaged  cathedral  spire. 

The  remaining  townsfolk  had  lived  with  the  glare  and 
rumble  of  the  front  for  three  years  now  and  the  pas- 
sage back  and  forth  of  men  and  horses  and  guns  hardly 
elicited  as  much  attention  as  the  occasional  promenade  of 
a  policeman  in  Evanston,  Illinois.  But  these  were  dif- 
ferent men  that  rode  through  those  streets  that  day. 

This  was  the  first  battery  of  American  artillery  that 
had  passed  that  way.  This  was  an  occasion  and  the 
townspeople  responded  to  it.  Children,  women  and  old 
men  chirped  "vivas,"  kissed  hands,  bared  heads  and 
waved  hats  and  aprons  from  curb  and  shop  door  and 
windows  overhead. 

There  was  no  cheering,  but  there  were  smiles  and  tears 
and  "God  bless  you's."  It  was  not  a  vociferous  greet- 
ing, but  a  heart-felt  one.  They  offered  all  there  was 
left  of  an  emotion  that  still  ran  deep  and  strong  within 
but  that  outwardly  had  been  benumbed  by  three  years 
of  nerve-rack  and  war-weariness. 

Onward  into  the  zone  of  war  we  rode.  On  through 
successive  battered  villages,  past  houses  without  roofs, 
windows  with  shattered  panes,  stone  walls  with  gaping 
shell  holes  through  them,  churches  without  steeples,  our 
battery  moved  toward  the  last  billeting  place  before  en- 
tering the  line. 

This  was  the  ancient  town  of  Saint-Nicolas-du-Port  on 
the  banks  of  the  river  Meurthe.  Into  the  Place  de  la 
Republic  of  the  town  the  battery  swung  with  a  clamor- 
ous advance  guard  of  schoolchildren  and  street  gamins. 

The  top  sergeant  who  had  preceded  the  battery  into 
the  town,  galloped  up  to  the  captain  upon  our  entry 
and  presented  him  with  a  sheaf  of  yellow  paper  slips, 


138  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

which  bore  the  addresses  of  houses  and  barns  and  the 
complements  of  men  and  horses  to  be  quartered  in  each. 
This  was  the  billeting  schedule  provided  by  the  French 
major  of  the  town.  The  guns  were  parked,  the  horses 
picketed  and  the  potato  peelers  started  on  their  endless 
task.  The  absence  of  fuel  for  the  mess  fires  demanded 
immediate  correction. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  past  noon  when  the  captain  and 
I  entered  the  office  of  the  French  Town  Major.  It 
was  vacant.  The  officers  were  at  dejeuner,  we  learned 
from  an  old  woman  who  was  sweeping  the  command- 
ant's rooms.  Where  ? — Ah,  she  knew  not.  We  accosted 
the  first  French  officer  we  met  on  the  street. 

"Where  does  the  Town  Major  eat?"  the  Captain  in- 
quired in  his  best  Indianapolis  French.  After  the  cus- 
tomary exchange  of  salutes,  introductions,  handshakes 
and  greetings,  the  Frenchman  informed  us  that  Monsieur 
Le  Commandant  favoured  the  pommard  that  Madame 
Larue  served  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Fountaine. 

We  hurried  to  that  place,  and  there  in  a  little  back 
room  behind  a  plate-cluttered  table  with  a  red  and  white 
checkered  table  cloth,  we  found  the  Major.  The  Major 
said  he  spoke  the  English  with  the  fluency.  He  demon- 
strated his  delusion  when  we  asked  for  wood. 

"Wood !  Ah,  but  it  is  impossible  that  it  is  wood  you 
ask  of  me.  Have  I  not  this  morning  early  seen  with 
my  own  eyes  the  wood  ordered  ?" 

"But  there  is  no  wood,"  replied  the  Captain.  "I  must 
have  wood  for  the  fires.  It  is  past  noon  and  my  men 
have  not  eaten." 

"Ah,  but  I  am  telling  you  there  is  wood,"  replied  the 
Major.  "I  saw  your  supply  officer  pay  for  the  wood. 
By  now  I  believe  it  has  been  delivered  for  you  in  the 
Place  de  la  Republique." 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  139 

"But  it  hasn't,"  remonstrated  the  Captain,  "and  the 
fires  have  not  yet  been  started,  and " 

"But  it  is  on  the  way,  probably,"  said  the  Major. 
"Maybe  it  will  be  there  soon.     Maybe  it  is  there  now." 

The  Captain  took  another  tack. 

"Where  was  the  wood  bought  ?"  he  asked. 

"From  the  wood  merchant  beyond  the  river,"  replied 
the  Major.     "But  it  is  already  on  the  way,  and " 

"How  do  you  go  to  the  wood  merchant  ?"  insisted  the 
Captain.    "We  have  got  to  have  the  wood  toot  sweet." 

"Ah !  tout  de  suite — tout  de  suite — tout  de  suite,"  re- 
peated the  Major  in  tones  of  exasperation.  "With  you 
Americans  it  is  always  tout  de  suite.    Here " 

He  took  my  notebook  and  drew  a  plan  of  streets  indi- 
cating the  way  to  the  place  of  the  wood  merchant.  In 
spite  of  his  remark  and  the  undesired  intrusion  of  busi- 
ness upon  his  dejeuner,  the  Major's  manner  was  as 
friendly  as  could  be  expected  from  a  Town  Major.  We 
left  on  the  run. 

The  wood  merchant  was  a  big  man,  elderly  and  fat. 
His  face  was  red  and  he  had  bushy  grey  eyebrows.  He 
wore  a  smock  of  blue  cloth  that  came  to  his  knees.  He 
remonstrated  that  it  was  useless  for  us  to  buy  wood  from 
him  because  wood  had  already  been  bought  for  us.  He 
spoke  only  French.  The  Captain  dismissed  all  further 
argument  by  a  direct  frontal  attack  on  the  subject. 

"Avez-vous  de  hois?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"Oui''  the  merchant  nodded. 

"Avez-vous  de  chevaux?"  the  Captain  asked. 

<cOui,"  the  merchant  nodded  again. 

"Avez-vous  de  voiture?"  the  Captain  asked. 

"Oui," — another  nod. 

"All  right  then,"  continued  the  Captain,  and  then 
emphasising  each  word  by  the  sudden  production  of  an- 


140  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

other  stiff  finger  on  his  extended  hand,  he  said,  "Du  bois 
— des  chevaux — una  voiture — de  whole  damn  business — 
and  toot  sweet." 

In  some  remarkable  fashion  the  kindly  wood  merchant 
gathered  that  the  Captain  wanted  wood  piled  in  a  wagon, 
drawn  by  a  horse  and  wanted  it  in  a  hurry.  Tout  de 
suite,  pronounced  "toot  sweet"  by  our  soldiers,  was  a 
term  calling  for  speed,  that  was  among  the  first  acquired 
by  our  men  in  France. 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  elevated  his 
hand,  palm  outward,  and  signified  with  an  expression 
of  his  face  that  it  was  useless  to  argue  further  for  the 
benefit  of  these  Americans.  He  turned  and  gave  the 
necessary  loading  orders  to  his  working  force. 

That  working  force  consisted  of  two  French  girls, 
each  about  eighteen  years  of  age.  They  wore  long  baggy 
bloomers  of  brown  corduroy,  tight  at  the  ankles  where 
they  flopped  about  in  folds  over  clumsy  wooden  shoes. 
They  wore  blouses  of  the  same  material  and  tarn  o'shan- 
ter  hats  to  match,  called  berets. 

Each  one  of  them  had  a  cigarette  hanging  from  the 
corner  of  her  mouth.  One  stood  on  the  ground  and 
tossed  up  the  thirty  or  forty-pound  logs  to  her  sister 
who  stood  above  on  top  of  the  wagon.  The  latter  caught 
them  in  her  extended  arms  and  placed  them  in  a  pile. 
To  the  best  of  my  recollection,  neither  one  of  the  girls- 
missed  a  puff. 

While  the  loading  proceeded,  the  wood  merchant, 
speaking  slowly  in  French,  made  us  understand  the  fol- 
lowing : 

"Many  peculiar  things  happen  in  the  war,  Monsieur," 
he  said.  "Your  country,  the  America,  is  the  land  of 
wonders.  Listen,  my  name  is  Helois.  Ten  days  ago 
there  came  to  me  one  of  the  washerwomen  who  clean 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  141 

the  clothes  on  the  banks  of  the  Meurthe,  and  she  said 
to  me: 

"  'Ah,  Monsieur,  the  wood  merchant.  You  are  the 
sly  fox.  I  have  your  secret.'  And  I  say  to  her  that  I 
know  not  of  what  she  speaks. 

"  'You  boast  in  the  town  that  your  two  sons  are  at 
the  front,'  she  said,  'but  I  know  that  one  at  least  of 
them  is  not.'  And  I  was  dumbfounded.  I  say  to  her, 
'Woman,  it  is  a  lie  you  tell  me.  Both  of  my  boys  are 
with  their  regiments,  in  the  trenches  even  now,  if  by 
the  grace  of  the  good  God  they  still  live.' 

"  'No,'  she  say  to  me,  'one  of  your  sons  hides  in  the 
hotel  of  Madame  Larue.  How  do  I  know  this  secret, 
Monsieur  the  wood  merchant  ?  I  know  because  this  day 
have  I  washed  the  shirt,  with  his  name  on  it,  at  the  river 
bank.  His  name,  Helois, — the  Lieutenant  Helois — was 
stamped  on  the  collar  and  the  shirt  came  from  the  hotel, 
La  Fontaine.' 

"I  tell  her  that  it  is  a  mistake — that  it  is  the  great  in- 
justice to  me  she  speaks,  and  that  night  I  dressed  in  my 
best  clothes  to  penetrate  this  mystery — to  meet  this  man 
who  disgracefully  used  the  name  of  my  son — to  expose 
this  impostor  who  would  bring  shame  to  the  name  of 
Helois,  the  wood  merchant,  whose  two  sons  have  been 
fighting  for  France  these  three  long  years. 

"And  so,  Monsieur,  I  meet  this  man  at  the  hotel.  She 
was  right.  His  name  was  Helois.  Here  is  his  card. 
The  Lieutenant  Louis  F.  Helois,  and  he  is  a  lieutenant 
in  the  United  States  Army." 

"So  it  was  a  mistake,"  replied  the  Captain,  handing 
the  card  back  to  the  wood  merchant,  whose  lobster  red 
features  bore  an  enigmatical  smile. 

"No, — not  the  mistake,  the  truth,"  replied  the  wood 
merchant.    "Not  my  son — but  my  grandson — the  son  of 


i42  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


my  son — the  son  of  my  third  son  who  went  to  America 
years  ago.  And  now  he  comes  back  in  the  uniform  of 
liberty  to  fight  again  for  France.  Ah,  Messieurs  les 
Officicrs — the  sons  of  France  return  from  the  ends  of 
the  world  to  fight  her  cause." 

While  the  wood  merchant  was  telling  us  that  the 
American  grandson  had  only  stopped  three  days  in  the 
town  and  then  had  moved  up  to  service  at  the  front,  the 
air  was  shattered  by  a  loud  report.  It  was  the  snap  of 
the  whip  in  the  hands  of  the  young  French  amazon, 
standing  high  on  the  load  of  wood.  We  escorted  the 
fuel  proudly  to  the  Place  de  la  Republique.  Soon  the 
fires  were  burning  briskly  and  the  smell  of  onions  and 
coffee  and  hot  chow  was  on  the  air. 

The  stoves  were  pitched  at  the  bottom  of  a  stone 
monument  in  the  centre  of  the  square.  Bags  of  potatoes 
and  onions  and  burlap  covered  quarters  of  beef  and 
other  pieces  of  mess  sergeants  paraphernalia  were  piled 
on  the  steps  of  the  monument,  which  was  covered  with 
the  green  and  black  scars  from  dampness  and  age. 

The  plinth  supported  a  stone  shaft  fifteen  feet  in 
height,  which  touched  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees. 
The  monument  was  topped  with  a  huge  cross  of  stone 
on  which  was  the  sculptured  figure  of  the  Christ. 

Little  Sykoff,  the  battery  mess  sergeant,  stood  over 
the  stove  at  the  bottom  of  the  monument.  He  held  in 
his  hand  a  frying  pan,  which  he  shook  back  and  forth 
over  the  fire  to  prevent  the  sizzling  chips  in  the  pan  from 
burning.  His  eyes  lowered  from  an  inspection  of  the 
monument  and  met  mine.     He  smiled. 

"Mr.  Gibbons,"  he  said,  "if  that  brother  of  mine,  who 
runs  the  photograph  gallery  out  on  Paulina  and  Madison 
Streets  in  Chicago,  could  only  see  me  now,  he  sure  would 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  143 

^— — — — —       I—  !■■  ■  — — ^— ■—  ^^»^l     ■       ■  I  III  — — — g 

tell  the  Rabbi.  Can  you  beat  it — a  Jew  here  frying  ham 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Cross." 

It  was  rather  hard  to  beat — and  so  was  the  ham.  We 
made  this  concession  as  we  sat  on  the  plinth  of  the 
monument  and  polished  our  mess  kits  with  bread.  And 
such  bread — it  was  the  regulation  United  States  army 
issue  bread — white,  firm  and  chuck  full  of  nourishment 
— bread  that  seemed  like  cake  to  the  French  youngsters 
who  tasted  it  and  who  returned  with  open  mouths  and 
outstretched  hands  for  more  of  the  "good  white  bread." 

After  the  meal,  those  members  of  Battery  A  not  de- 
tailed for  immediate  duty  denied  themselves  none  of  the 
joys  that  a  new  town,  in  a  strange  land,  holds  for  a 
soldier. 

Saint-Nicholas-du-Port  boasts  a  remarkable  cathedral 
of  mediaeval  architecture,  of  enormous  dimensions.  It 
was  crumbling  with  age,  but  still  housed  the  holy.  Time 
and  the  elements  had  left  the  traces  of  their  rough  usage 
upon  the  edifice. 

Half  of  the  statues  on  the  broad  facade  of  the  cathe- 
dral had  been  broken,  and  now  the  niches  afforded  domi- 
ciles for  families  of  pigeons.  On  the  ground,  in  a 
careless  pile,  to  one  side  of  the  frontal  arch,  was  an  ig- 
nominious pile  of  miscellaneous  arms  and  legs  and  heads 
of  sculptured  figures,  resting  there  in  anything  but  saintly 
dignity.  Two  of  our  young  artillerymen  were  standing 
in  front  of  the  cathedral  surveying  it. 

"Certainly  is  in  need  of  repairs,"  said  one  of  them. 
"I'll  bet  they  haven't  done  no  bricklaying  or  plumbing 
on  this  place  since  before  the  Civil  War." 

"That  ain't  hardly  the  right  way  to  treat  old  Saints," 
replied  his  companion,  referring  to  the  pile  of  broken 
statuary.  "Seems  like  they  ought  to  cement  the  arms 
and  legs  and  heads  back  on  those  old  boys  and  old  girls 


144  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  put  them  back  on  their  pedestals.  I  guess,  though, 
there  ain't  nobody  living  to  identify  the  pieces,  so  they 
could  get  the  right  arms  and  heads  on  the  right  bodies." 

Our  battery  had  among  its  drivers  an  old  timer  who 
might  have  been  called  a  historian.  His  opinion  held 
weight  in  the  organisation.  He  professed  to  be  able 
to  read  American  ball  scores  and  war  news  out  of  French 
newspapers,  a  number  of  which  he  always  carried.  Later 
that  day,  I  heard  him  lecturing  the  cathedral  critics  on 
their  lack  of  appreciation  of  art  and  history. 

"New  things  ain't  art,"  he  told  them ;  "things  has  got 
to  be  old  before  they  are  artistic.  Nobody'd  look  at 
the  Venus  dee  Milo  if  she  had  all  her  arms  on.  You 
never  hear  nobody  admiring  a  modern  up-to-date  castle 
with  electric  lighting  and  bath  tubs  in  it.  It  simply 
ain't  art. 

"Now,  this  cathedral  is  art.  This  country  around 
here  is  just  full  of  history.  Here's  where  whole  book 
stores  of  it  was  written.  Why,  say,  there  was  batteries 
of  artillery  rolling  through  this  country  a  million  years 
ago.  It  was  right  around  here  that  Napoleon  joined 
forces  with  Julius  Caesar  to  fight  the  Crusaders.  This 
here  is  sacred  ground." 

In  the  evening,  a  number  of  the  battery,  located  the 
buvette  that  carried  across  its  curtained  front  the  gold 
lettered  sign  bar  Parisian.  It  was  a  find.  Some  thirty 
American  artillerymen  crowded  around  the  tables. 

Cigarette  smoke  filled  the  low-ceilinged  room  with 
blue  layers,  through  which  the  lamp  light  shone.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  mechanical  piano  which  swallowed  big 
copper  sous  and  gave  out  discord's  metallic  melody.  It 
was  of  an  American  make  and  the  best  number  on  its 
printed  programme  was  "Aren't  you  Coming  Back  to  Old 
Virginia,  Molly?"    Sous  followed  sous  into  this  howitzer 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  145 


of  harmony  and  it  knew  no  rest  that  night.     Everybody 
joined  in  and  helped  it  out  on  the  choruses. 

Things  were  going  fine  when  the  door  opened  at  about 
nine  thirty,  and  there  stood  two  members  of  the  Amer- 
ican Provost  Guard.  They  carried  with  them  two  or- 
ders. One  instructed  Madame,  the  proprietress,  to  dis- 
pense no  more  red  ink  or  beer  to  American  soldiers  that 
night,  and  the  other  was  a  direction  to  all  Americans 
around  the  table  to  get  back  to  their  billets  for  the  night. 

The  bunch  left  with  reluctance  but  without  a  grumble. 
It  was  warm  and  comfortable  within  the  bar  Parisian 
and  Madame's  smiles  and  red  wine  and  beer  and  Camem- 
bert  cheese  composed  the  Broadway  of  many  recent 
dreams.     But  they  left  without  complaint. 

They  made  their  rollicking  departure,  returning  Ma- 
dame's parting  smiles,  gallantly  lifting  their  steel  hel- 
mets and  showering  her  with  vociferous  "bong  swore's." 
And — well  it  simply  must  be  told.  She  kissed  the  last 
one  out  out  the  door  and,  turning,  wiped  away  a  tear 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron.  Madame  had  seen  youth 
on  the  way  to  the  front  before. 

The  billets  were  comfortable.  Some  were  better  than 
others.  Picket  line  details  slept  in  their  blankets  in  the 
hay  over  the  stables.  Gun  crews  drew  beds  and  pallets 
on  the  floor  in  occupied  houses.  In  these  homes  there 
was  always  that  hour  before  retirement  for  the  night 
when  the  old  men  and  remaining  women  of  the  French 
household  and  their  several  military  guests  billeted  in 
the  place,  would  gather  about  the  fireplace  in  the  kitchen 
and  regale  one  another  with  stories,  recounted  by  the 
murder  of  French  and  English  languages  and  a  wealth 
of  pantomime. 

Louise,  the  eighteen-year-old  daughter  of  the  town- 
crier — he  who  daily  beat  the  drum  in  front  of  the  Hotel 


146  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

de  Ville  and  read  lengthy  bulletins,  was  interested  in  the 
workings  of  Gunner  Black's  colt  automatic.  Gunner 
Black,  most  anxious  to  show  her,  demonstrated  the  ac- 
tion of  the  pistol  but,  forgetting  that  inevitable  shell 
in  the  chamber,  shot  himself  in  the  arm. 

It  was  only  an  incident.  The  noise  scared  Louise, 
but  not  the  wound.  She  had  seen  too  many  Americans 
get  shot  in  the  moving  pictures. 

The  captain  and  I  were  quartered  in  the  house  of  the 
Cure  of  the  cathedral.  The  old  housekeeper  of  the 
place  made  the  captain  blush  when  she  remarked  her  sur- 
prise that  there  were  such  young  captains  in  the  Amer- 
ican army.  Her  name  was  Madame  Dupont,  and  she 
was  more  than  pleased  to  learn  from  the  captain  that 
that  had  been  the  maiden  name  of  his  mother. 

The  captain's  room  had  the  interior  dimensions  and 
heavy  decorations  of  the  mystic  inner  sanctum  of  some 
secret  grand  lodge.  Religious  paintings  and  symbols 
hung  from  the  walls,  which  were  papered  in  dark  red  to 
match  the  heavy  plush  hangings  over  the  ever  closed 
windows. 

Two  doors  in  the  blank  wall  swung  open  revealing  a 
hermetically  sealed  recess  in  which  a  bed  just  fitted. 
This  arrangement,  quite  common  in  France,  indicated 
that  the  device  now  popular  in  two-room  sleeping  apart- 
ments in  America,  must  have  been  suggested  by  the  sleep- 
ing customs  of  mediaeval  times. 

Early  the  next  morning,  our  battery  pulled  out  for  the 
front.  We  were  bound  for  the  line.  We  took  the  roads 
out  of  Saint  Nicolas  to  the  east,  making  our  way  toward 
that  part  of  the  front  that  was  known  as  the  Luneville 
sector.  Our  way  lay  through  the  towns  of  Dombasle, 
Sommerviller,  Maixe,  Einville,  Valhey,  Serres,  to  the 
remains  of  the  ruined  village  of  Hoeville. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  147 

The  sector  runs  almost  along  the  border  between 
France  and  old  Lorraine,  occupied  by  the  Germans  since 
1870.  Even  the  names  of  the  old  French  towns  beyond 
the  border  had  been  changed  to  German  in  the  effort  of 
the  Prussians  to  Germanise  the   stolen  province. 

It  was  in  this  section  during  the  few  days  just  prior 
to  the  outbreak  of  the  war  that  France  made  unwise 
demonstration  of  her  disinclination  toward  hostilities 
with  Germany.  Every  soldier  in  France  was  under  arms, 
as  was  every  soldier  in  Europe.  France  had  military 
patrols  along  her  borders.  In  the  French  chamber  of 
deputies,  the  socialists  had  rushed  through  a  measure 
which  was  calculated  to  convince  the  German  people  that 
France  had  no  intentions  or  desire  of  menacing  German 
territory.  By  that  measure  every  French  soldier  was 
withdrawn  from  the  Franco-German  border  to  a  line 
ten  miles  inside  of  France.  The  German  appreciation 
of  this  evidence  of  peacefulness  was  manifested  when 
the  enemy,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  moved  across  the 
border  and  occupied  that  ten-mile  strip  of  France. 

France  had  succeeded  in  driving  the  enemy  back  again 
in  that  part  of  Lorraine,  but  only  at  the  cost  of  many 
lives  and  the  destruction  of  many  French  towns  and 
villages.  Since  the  close  of  the  fighting  season  of  1914, 
there  had  been  little  or  no  progress  on  either  side  at 
this  point.  The  opposing  lines  here  had  been  stationary 
for  almost  three  years  and  it  was  known  on  both  sides 
as  a  quiet  sector. 

The  country  side  was  of  a  rolling  character,  but  very 
damp.  At  that  season  of  the  year  when  our  first  Amer- 
ican fighting  men  reached  the  Western  front,  that  part 
of  the  line  that  they  occupied  was  particularly  muddy 
and  miserable. 

Before  nine  o'clock  that  morning  as  we  rode  on  to 


148  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  front,  the  horse-drawn  traffic,  including  our  battery, 
was  forced  to  take  the  side  of  the  road  numerous  times 
to  permit  the  passage  of  long  trains  of  motor  trucks 
loaded  down  with  American  infantrymen,  bound  in  the 
same  direction. 

Most  of  the  motor  vehicles  were  of  the  omnibus  type. 
A  number  of  them  were  worthy  old  double-deckers  that 
had  seen  long  years  of  peaceful  service  on  the  boulevards 
of  Paris  before  the  war.  Slats  of  wood  ran  lengthwise 
across  the  windows  of  the  lower  seating  compartment 
and  through  these  apertures  young,  sun-burned,  Ameri- 
can faces  topped  with  steel  helmets,  peered  forth. 

Some  of  our  men  reposed  languidly  on  the  rear  steps 
of  the  busses  or  on  the  tops.  Most  of  the  bus-loads  were 
singing  rollicking  choruses.  The  men  were  in  good 
spirits.  They  had  been  cheered  in  every  village  they 
had  passed  through  on  the  way  from  their  training  area. 

"Howdy,  bowleg,"  was  the  greeting  shouted  by  one 
of  these  motoring  mockers,  who  looked  down  on  our 
saddled  steeds,  "better  get  a  hustle  on  them  hayburners. 
We're  going  to  be  in  Berlin  by  the  time  you  get  where 
the  front  used  to  be." 

"Yes,  you  will,"  replied  one  of  the  mounted  artillery- 
men, with  a  negative  inflection.  "You'll  get  a  hell  of 
a  long  ways  without  us.  If  you  doughboys  start  any- 
thing without  the  artillery,  you'll  see  Berlin  through  the 
bars  of  a  prisoner's  cage." 

"Lucky  pups — the  artillery — nothing  to  do  but  ride," 
was  the  passing  shout  of  another  taunter,  perched  high 
on  a  bus.  This  was  an  unanswerable  revision  of  an  old 
taunt  that  the  artillery  used  to  shout  to  passing  infantry 
in  the  days  when  a  foot  soldier  was  really  a  foot  soldier. 
Then  the  easy-riding  mounted  troops,  when  passing  an 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  149 

infantry  column  on  the  road,  would  say,  "Pretty  soft 
for  the  doughboys — nothing  to  do  but  walk." 

"Times  certainly  have  changed,"  one  of  our  battery 
drivers  felt  it  necessary  to  remark  to  me  in  defence  of 
his  branch  of  the  service.  "But  there  ain't  no  spark 
plugs  or  carburetors  to  get  out  of  order  on  our  mounts. 

"However,  we  do  have  our  troubles.  That  runaway 
wheeler  in  No.  2  section  broke  away  from  the  picket 
line  last  night  and  Kemball  and  I  were  detailed  to  hunt 
all  over  town  for  him. 

"You  know  that  dark,  winding,  narrow  street,  that 
winds  down  the  hill  back  of  the  cathedral.  Well,  it 
was  about  midnight  and  blacker  than  the  ace  of  spades, 
when  Kemball  and  I  pushed  along  there  in  the  dark, 
looking  for  that  onery  animal. 

"Suddenly,  we  heard  a  sharp  clatter  on  the  cobble- 
stones half  a  block  up  the  hill.  It  was  coming  our  way 
full  speed.  'Here  he  comes  now,'  said  Kemball,  'and 
he's  galloping  like  hell.  Jump  into  a  doorway  or  he'll 
climb  all  over  us.' 

"We  waited  there  pressed  against  the  wall  in  the  dark 
as  the  galloping  came  up  to  us  and  passed.  What  dy'e 
s'pose  it  was  ?  It  wasn't  that  runaway  horse  at  all.  Just 
a  couple  of  them  French  kids  chasing  one  another  in 
wooden  shoes." 

The  road  to  the  front  was  a  populous  one.  We  passed 
numerous  groups  of  supply  wagons  carrying  food  and 
fodder  up  to  the  front  lines.  Other  wagons  were  re- 
turning empty  and  here  and  there  came  an  ambulance 
with  bulgy  blankets  outlining  the  figures  of  stretcher 
cases,  piled  two  high  and  two  wide.  Occasionally  a 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  runabout  loaded  down  with  coffee  pots  and 
candy  tins  and  driven  by  helmeted  wearers  of  the  Red 


150  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Triangle,  would  pass  us  carrying  its  store  of  extras  to 
the  boys  up  front. 

We  passed  through  villages  where  manufacturing 
plants  were  still  in  operation  and,  nearer  the  front,  the 
roads  lay  through  smaller  hamlets,  shell  torn  and  de- 
serted, save  for  sentries  who  stood  guard  in  wooden 
coops  at  intersections.  Civilians  became  fewer  and 
fewer,  although  there  was  not  a  village  that  did  not  have 
one  or  two  women  or  children  or  old  men  unfit  for  uni- 
form. 

Finally  the  road  mounted  a  rolling  hill  and  here  it 
was  bordered  by  roadside  screens  consisting  of  stretched 
chicken  wire  to  which  whisps  of  straw  and  grass  and  bits 
of  green  dyed  cloth  had  been  attached.  Our  men  riding 
behind  the  screen  peered  through  apertures  in  it  and  saw 
the  distant  hills  forward,  from  which  German  glasses 
could  have  observed  all  passage  along  that  road  had  it 
not  been  for  the  screen. 

So  we  moved  into  position.  It  was  late  in  the  night 
of  October  22nd,  191 7,  that  our  batteries  of  artillery 
and  companies  of  infantry  moved  through  the  darkness 
on  the  last  lap  of  their  trip  to  the  front.  The  roads 
were  sticky  and  gummy.  A  light  rain  was  falling.  The 
guns  boomed  in  front  of  us,  but  not  with  any  continued 
intensity.  Through  streets  paved  with  slippery  cobbles 
and  bordered  with  the  bare  skeletons  of  shell-wrecked 
houses,  our  American  squads  marched  four  abreast. 
Their  passing  in  the  darkness  was  accompanied  by  the 
sound  of  the  unhastened  tread  of  many  hobnailed  boots. 

At  times,  the  rays  of  a  cautiously  flashed  electric  light 
would  reveal  our  infantrymen  with  packs  on  back  and 
rifles  slung  over  their  shoulders.  A  stiff  wind  whipped 
the  rain  into  their  faces  and  tugged  the  bottoms  of  their 
flapping,  wet  overcoats. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  151 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  they  had  made  it  on 
foot  a  number  of  miles  from  the  place  where  they  had 
disembarked  from  the  motor  trucks,  the  men  marched 
along  to  the  soft  singing  of  songs,  which  were  ordered 
discontinued  as  the  marching  columns  got  closer  to  the 
communicating  trenches  which  led  into  the  front  line. 

In  the  march  were  machine  gun  carts  hauled  by  Amer- 
ican mules  and  rolling  kitchens,  which  at  times  dropped 
on  the  darkened  road  swirls  of  glowing  red  embers  that 
had  to  be  hurriedly  stamped  out.  Anxious  American 
staff  officers  consulted  their  wrist  watches  frequently 
in  evidence  of  the  concern  they  felt  as  to  whether  the 
various  moving  units  were  reaching  designated  points 
upon  the  scheduled  minute. 

It  was  after  midnight  that  our  men  reached  the  front 
line.  It  was  the  morning  of  October  23rd,  191 7,  that 
American  infantrymen  and  Bavarian  regiments  of 
Landwehr  and  Landsturm  faced  one  another  for  the 
first  time  in  front  line  positions  on  the  European  front. 

Less  than  eight  hundred  yards  of  slate  and  drab-col- 
oured soft  ground,  blotched  with  rust-red  expanses  of 
wire  entanglements,  separated  the  hostile  lines. 

There  was  no  moon.  A  few  cloud-veiled  stars  only 
seemed  to  accentuate  the  blackness  of  the  night.  There, 
in  the  darkness  and  the  mud,  on  the  slippery  firing  step 
of  trench  walls  and  in  damp,  foul-smelling  dugouts, 
young  red-blooded  Americans  tingled  for  the  first  time 
with  the  thrill  that  they  had  trained  so  long  and  trav- 
elled so  far  to  experience. 

Through  unfortunate  management  of  the  Press  ar- 
rangements in  connection  with  this  great  historical  event, 
American  correspondents  accredited  by  the  War  Depart- 
ment to  our  forces,  were  prevented  from  accompanying 
our  men  into  the  front  that  night.     Good  fortune,  how- 


152  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ever,  favoured  me  as  one  of  the  two  sole  exceptions  to 
this  circumstance.  Raymond  G.  Carroll,  correspondent 
of  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger,  and  myself,  repre- 
senting the  Chicago  Tribune  and  its  associated  papers, 
were  the  only  two  newspaper  men  who  went  into  the 
line  with  the  men  that  night.  For  enjoying  this  unusual 
opportunity,  we  were  both  arrested  several  days  later, 
not,  however,  until  after  we  had  obtained  the  first-hand 
story  of  the  great  event. 

A  mean  drizzle  of  rain  was  falling  that  night,  but  it 
felt  cool  on  the  pink  American  cheeks  that  were  hot  with 
excitement.  The  very  wetness  of  the  air  impregnated 
all  it  touched  with  the  momentousness  of  the  hour. 
Spirits  were  high  and  the  mud  was  deep,  but  we  who 
were  there  had  the  feeling  that  history  was  chiselling  that 
night's  date  into  her  book  of  ages. 

Occasionally  a  shell  wheezed  over  through  the  soggy 
atmosphere,  seeming  to  leave  an  unseen  arc  in  the  dark- 
ness above.  It  would  terminate  with  a  sullen  thump  in 
some  spongy,  water-soaked  mound  behind  us.  Then  an 
answering  missive  of  steel  would  whine  away  into  the 
populated  invisibility  in  front  of  us. 

French  comrades,  in  half  English  and  half  French, 
gushed  their  congratulations,  and  shook  us  by  the  hand. 
Some  of  us  were  even  hugged  and  kissed  on  both  cheeks. 
Our  men  took  the  places  of  French  platoons  that  were 
sent  back  to  rest  billets.  But  other  French  platoons 
remained  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  our  men  in  the  front 
line.  The  presence  of  our  troops  there  was  in  continu- 
ation of  their  training  for  the  purpose  of  providing  a 
nucleus  for  the  construction  of  later  contingents.  Both 
our  infantry  and  our  artillery  acted  in  conjunction  with 
the  French  infantry  and  artillery  and  the  sector  remained 
under  French  command. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  153 

Our  men  were  eager  to  ask  questions  and  the  French 
were  ever  ready  to  respond.  They  first  told  us  about 
the  difference  in  the  sound  of  shells.  Now  that  one  that 
started  with  a  bark  in  back  of  us  and  whined  over  our 
heads  is  a  depart.  It  is  an  Allied  shell  on  its  way  to  the 
Germans.  Now,  this  one,  that  whines  over  first  and 
ends  with  a  distant  grunt,  like  a  strong  wallop  on  a 
wet  carpet,  is  an  arrivec.  It  has  arrived  from  Germany. 
In  the  dugouts,  our  men  smoked  dozens  of  cigarettes, 
lighting  fresh  ones  from  the  half-consumed  butts.  It  is 
the  appetite  that  comes  with  the  progressive  realisation 
of  a  long  deferred  hope.  It  is  the  tension  that  comes 
from  at  last  arriving  at  an  object  and  then  finding  noth- 
ing to  do,  now  that  you  are  there.  It  is  the  nervousness 
that  nerveless  youth  suffers  in  inactivity. 

The  men  sloshed  back  and  forth  through  the  mud 
along  the  narrow  confines  of  the  trench.  The  order  is 
against  much  movement,  but  immobility  is  unbearable. 
Wet  slickers  rustle  against  one  another  in  the  narrow 
traverses,  and  equipment,  principally  the  French  and 
English  gas  masks,  hanging  at  either  hip  become  en- 
tangled in  the  darkness. 

At  times  a  steel  helmet  falls  from  some  unaccustomed 
head  and,  hitting  perhaps  a  projecting  rock  in  the  trench 
wall,  gives  forth  a  clang  which  is  followed  by  curses 
from  its  clumsy  owner  and  an  admonition  of  quiet  from 
some  young  lieutenant. 

"Olson,  keep  your  damn  fool  head  down  below  the 
top  of  that  trench  or  you'll  get  it  blown  off."  The  ser- 
geant is  talking,  and  Olson,  who  brought  from  Minne- 
sota a  keen  desire  to  see  No  Man's  Land  even  at  the  risk 
of  his  life,  is  forced  to  repress  the  yearning. 

"Two  men  over  in  B  Company  just  got  holes  drilled 
through  their  beans  for  doing  the  same  thing,"  contin- 


1^4  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ued  the  sergeant.  "There's  nothing  you  can  see  out 
there  anyhow.    It's  all  darkness." 

Either  consciously  or  unconsciously,  the  sergeant  was 
lying,  for  the  purpose  of  saving  Olson  and  others  from 
a  fool's  fate.  There  was  not  a  single  casualty  in  any 
American  unit  on  the  line  that  first  night. 

"Where  is  the  telephone  dugout?"  a  young  lieutenant 
asked  his  French  colleague.  "I  want  to  speak  to  the 
battalion  commander." 

"But  you  must  not  speak  English  over  the  telephone," 
replied  the  Frenchman,  "the  Germans  will  hear  you  with 
the  instruments  they  use  to  tap  the  underground  cir- 
cuit." 

"But  I  was  going  to  use  our  American  code,"  said  the 
front  line  novice;  "if  the  Germans  tap  in  they  won't  be 
able  to  figure  out  what  it  means." 

"Ah,  no,  my  friend,"  replied  the  Frenchman,  smiling. 
"They  won't  know  what  the  message  means,  but  your 
voice  and  language  will  mean  to  them  that  Americans 
are  occupying  the  sector  in  front  of  them,  and  we  want 
to  give  them  that  information  in  another  way,  riest  ce 
pas?" 

Undoubtedly  there  was  some  concern  in  the  German 
trenches  just  over  the  way  with  regard  to  what  was 
taking  place  in  our  lines.  Relief  periods  are  ticklish 
intervals  for  the  side  making  them.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  some  intimation  of  our  presence  may  have  been 
given. 

There  was  considerable  conversation  and  movement 
among  our  men  that  night.  Jimmy  found  it  frequently 
necessary  to  call  the  attention  of  Johnny  to  some  new 
thing  he  had  discovered.  And  of  a  consequence,  much 
natural,  but  needless,   chattering  resulted. 

I  believe  the  Germans  did  become  nervous  because  they 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  155 

made  repeated  attacks  on  the  enveloping  darkness  with 
numbers  of  star  shells.  These  aerial  beauties  of  night 
warfare  released  from  their  exploding  encasements  high 
in  the  air,  hung  from  white  silk  parachutes  above  the 
American  amateurs. 

The  numerous  company  and  battery  jesters  did  not 
refrain  from  imitative  expressions  of  "Ahs"  and  "Ohs" 
and  "Ain't  it  bootiful?"  as  their  laughing  upturned  faces 
were  illuminated  in  the  white  light. 

That  night  one  rocket  went  up  shortly  before  morn- 
ing. It  had  a  different  effect  from  its  predecessors.  It 
reared  itself  from  the  darkness  somewhere  on  the  left. 
Its  flight  was  noiseless  as  it  mounted  higher  and  higher 
on  its  fiery  staff.  Then  it  burst  in  a  shower  of  green 
balls  of  fire. 

That  meant  business.  One  green  rocket  was  the  signal 
that  the  Germans  were  sending  over  gas  shells.  It  was 
an  alarm  that  meant  the  donning  of  gas  masks.  On  they 
went  quickly.  It  was  the  first  time  this  equipment  had 
been  adjusted  under  emergency  conditions,  yet  the  men 
appeared  to  have  mastered  the  contrivances. 

Then  the  word  was  passed  along  the  trenches  and 
through  the  dugouts  for  the  removal  of  the  masks.  It 
had  not  been  a  French  signal.  The  green  rocket  had 
been  sent  up  by  the  Germans.  The  enemy  was  using 
green  rockets  that  night  as  a  signal  of  their  own.  There 
had  been  no  gas  shells.     It  was  a  false  alarm. 

"The  best  kind  of  practice  in  the  world,"  said  one  of 
our  battalion  commanders;  "it's  just  the  stuff  we're  here 
for.  I  hope  the  Germans  happen  to  do  that  every  night 
a  new  bunch  of  our  men  get  in  these  trenches." 

While  the  infantry  were  experiencing  these  initial 
thrills  in  the  front  line,  our  gunners  were  struggling  in 
the  mud  of  the  black  gun  pits  to  get  their  pieces  into 


156  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

position  in  the  quickest  possible  time,  and  achieve  the 
honour  of  firing  that  first  American  shot  in  the  war. 

Each  battery  worked  feverishly  in  intense  competition 
with  every  other  battery.  Battery  A  of  the  6th  Field, 
to  which  I  had  attached  myself,  lost  in  the  race  for  the 
honour.  Another  battery  in  the  same  regiment  accom- 
plished the  achievement. 

That  was  Battery  C  of  the  6th  Field  Artillery.  I  am 
reproducing,  herewith,  for  what  I  believe  is  the  first 
time,  the  exact  firing  data  on  that  shot  and  the  officers 
and  men  who  took  part  in  it. 

By  almost  superhuman  work  through  the  entire  pre- 
vious day  and  night,  details  of  men  from  Battery  C  had 
pulled  one  cannon  by  ropes  across  a  muddy,  almost  im- 
passable, meadow.  So  anxious  were  they  to  get  off-  the 
first  shot  that  they  did  not  stop  for  meals. 

They  managed  to  drag  the  piece  into  an  old  abandoned 
French  gun  pit.  The  historical  position  of  that  gun  was 
one  kilometre  due  east  of  the  town  of  Bathelemont  and 
three  hundred  metres  northeast  of  the  Bauzemont-Bath- 
elemont  road.  The  position  was  located  two  miles  from 
the  old  international  boundary  line  between  France  and 
German-Lorraine.  The  position  was  one  and  one-half 
kilometres  back  of  the  French  first  line,  then  occupied 
by  Americans. 

The  first  shot  was  fired  at  6:5:10  A.  M.,  October  23rd, 
191 7.  Those  who  participated  in  the  firing  of  the  shot 
were  as  follows : 

Lieutenant  F.  M.  Mitchell,  U.S.R.,  acted  as  platoon  chief. 
Corporal  Robert  Braley  laid  the  piece. 
Sergeant  Elward  Warthen  loaded  the  piece. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  157 

Sergeant  Frank  Grabowski  prepared  the  fuse  for  cutting. 
Private  Louis  Varady  prepared  the  fuse  for  cutting. 
Private  John  J.  Wodarczak  prepared  the  fuse  for  cutting. 
Corporal  Osborne  W.  De  Varila  prepared  the  fuse  for 
cutting. 

Sergeant  Lonnie  Domonick  cut  the  fuse. 

Captain  Idus  R.  McLendon  gave  the  command  to  fire. 

Sergeant  Alex  L.  Arch  fired  first  shot. 

The  missile  fired  was  a  75  millimetre  or  3-inch  high- 
explosive  shell.  The  target  was  a  German  battery  of 
150  milimetre  or  6-inch  guns  located  two  kilometres  back 
of  the  German  first  line  trenches,  and  one  kilometre  in 
back  of  the  boundary  line  between  France  and  German- 
Lorraine.  The  position  of  that  enemy  battery  on  the 
map  was  in  a  field  100  metres  west  of  the  town  which 
the  French  still  call  Xanrey,  but  which  the  Germans  have 
called  Schenris  since  they  took  it  from  France  in  1870. 
Near  that  spot — and  damn  near— fell  the  first  American 
shell  fired  in  the  great  war. 

Note:  It  is  peculiar  to  note  that  I  am  writing  this 
chapter  at  Atlantic  City,  October  23rd,  1918,  just  one 
year  to  the  day  after  the  event.  That  shot  surely  started 
something. 


158  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  SECTOR 

It  was  in  the  Luneville  sector,  described  in  the  pre- 
ceding chapter,  that  the  first  American  fighting  men 
faced  the  Germans  on  the  western  front.  It  was  there 
that  the  enemy  captured  its  first  American  prisoners 
in  a  small  midnight  raid ;  it  was  there  that  we  captured 
some  prisoners  of  theirs,  and  inflicted  our  first  German 
casualties;  it  was  there  that  the  first  American  fighting 
man  laid  down  his  life  on  the  western  front. 

In  spite  of  these  facts,  however,  the  occupation  of 
those  front  line  posts  in  that  sector  constituted  nothing 
more  than  a  post-graduate  course  in  training  under  the 
capable  direction  of  French  instructors  who  advised  our 
officers  and  men  in  everything  they  did. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  course,  which  extended  over 
a  number  of  weeks,  the  American  forces  engaged  in  it 
were  withdrawn  from  the  line  and  retired  for  a  well- 
earned  rest  period  and  for  reorganisation  purposes  in 
areas  back  of  the  line.  There  they  renewed  equipment 
and  prepared  for  the  occupation  of  the  first  ail-American 
sector  on  the  western  front. 

That  sector  was  located  in  Lorraine  some  distance  to 
the  east  of  the  Luneville  front.  It  was  north  and  slightly 
west  of  the  city  of  Toul.  It  was  on  the  east  side  of  the 
St.  Mihiel  salient,  then  occupied  by  the  Germans. 

The  sector  occupied  a  position  in  what  the  French 
called  the  Pont-a-Mousson  front  Our  men  were  to  oc- 
cupy an  eight-mile  section  of  the  front  line  trenches  ex- 
tending from  a  point  west  of  the  town  of  Flirey,  to  a 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  159 


point  west  of  the  ruins  of  the  town  of  Seicheprey.  The 
position  was  not  far  from  the  French  stronghold  of 
Verdun  to  the  northwest  or  the  German  stronghold  of 
Metz  to  the  northeast,  and  was  equidistant  from  both. 

That  line  changed  from  French  blue  to  American 
khaki  on  the  night  of  January  21st.  The  sector  became 
American  at  midnight.  I  watched  the  men  as  they 
marched  into  the  line.  In  small  squads  they  proceeded 
silently  up  the  road  toward  the  north,  from  which  di- 
rection a  raw  wind  brought  occasional  sounds  resembling 
the  falling  of  steel  plates  on  the  wooden  floor  of  a  long 
corridor. 

A  half  moon  doubly  ringed  by  mist,  made  the  hazy 
night  look  grey.  At  intervals,  phantom  flashes  flushed 
the  sky.  The  mud  of  the  roadway  formed  a  colourless 
paste  that  made  marching  not  unlike  skating  on  a  platter 
of  glue. 

This  was  their  departure  for  the  front — this  particular 
battalion — the  first  battalion  of  the  16th  United  States 
Infantry.  I  knew,  and  every  man  in  it  knew,  what  was 
before  them. 

Each  man  was  in  for  a  long  tour  of  duty  in  trenches 
knee-deep  with  melted  snow  and  mud.  Each  platoon 
commander  knew  the  particular  portion  of  that  battle- 
battered  bog  into  which  he  must  lead  his  men.  Each 
company  commander  knew  the  section  of  shell-punc- 
tured, swamp  land  that  was  his  to  hold,  and  the  battalion 
commander,  a  veteran  American  soldier,  was  well  aware 
of  the  particular  perils  of  the  position  which  his  one 
thousand  or  more  men  were  going  to  occupy  in  the  very 
jaw-joint  of  a  narrowing  salient. 

All  branches  of  the  United  States  military  forces  may 
take  special  pride  in  that  first  battalion  that  went  into 
the   new   American   line   that   night.      The   commander 


160  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

represented  the  U.  S.  Officers  Reserve  Corps,  and  the 
other  officers  and  men  were  from  the  reserves,  the  reg- 
ulars, West  Point,  the  National  Guard  and  the  National 
Army.  Moreover,  the  organisation  comprised  men  from 
all  parts  of  the  United  States  as  well  as  men  whose  par- 
ents had  come  from  almost  every  race  and  nationality 
in  the  world.  One  company  alone  possessed  such  a 
babble  of  dialects  among  its  new  Americans,  that  it 
proudly  called  itself,  the  Foreign  Legion. 

For  two  days  the  battalion  had  rested  in  the  mud  of 
the  semi-destroyed  village  of  Ansauville,  several  miles 
back  of  the  front.  A  broad,  shallow  stream,  then  at 
the  flood,  wound  through  and  over  most  of  the  village 
site.  Walking  anywhere  near  the  border  of  the  water, 
one  pulled  about  with  him  pounds  of  tenacious,  black 
gumbo.  Dogs  and  hogs,  ducks  and  horses,  and  men, — 
all  were  painted  with  nature's  handiest  camouflage. 

Where  the  stream  left  the  gaping  ruins  of  a  stone 
house  on  the  edge  of  the  village,  there  was  a  well-kept 
French  graveyard,  clinging  to  the  slope  of  a  small  hill. 
Above  the  ruins  of  the  hamlet,  stood  the  steeple  of  the 
old  stone  church,  from  which  it  was  customary  to  ring 
the  alarm  when  the  Germans  sent  over  their  shells  of 
poison  gas. 

Our  officers  busied  themselves  with  unfinished  sup- 
ply problems.  Such  matters  as  rubber  boots  for  the  men, 
duck  boards  for  the  trenches,  food  for  the  mules,  and 
ration  containers  necessary  for  the  conveyance  of  hot 
food  to  the  front  lines,  were  not  permitted  to  interfere 
with  the  battalion's  movements.  In  war,  there  is  al- 
ways the  alternative  of  doing  without  or  doing  with 
makeshifts,  and  that  particular  battalion  commander, 
after  three  years  of  war,  was  the  kind  of  a  soldier  who 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  161 

made  the  best  of  circumstances  no  matter  how  adverse 
they  may  have  been. 

That  commander  was  Major  Griffiths.  He  was  an 
American  fighting  man.  His  military  record  began  in 
the  Philippine  Insurrection,  when,  as  a  sergeant  in  a 
Tennessee  regiment  of  National  Guard,  he  was  men- 
tioned in  orders  for  conspicuous  gallantry.  At  the  sup- 
pression of  the  insurrection,  he  became  a  major  in  the 
United  States  Constabulary  in  the  Philippines.  He  re- 
signed his  majority  in  1914,  entered  the  Australian 
forces,  and  was  wounded  with  them  in  the  bloody  landing 
at  Gallipoli.  He  was  invalided  to  England,  where,  upon 
his  partial  recovery,  he  was  promoted  to  major  in  the 
British  forces  and  was  sent  to  France  in  command  of  a 
battalion  of  the  Sherwood  Foresters.  With  them,  he 
received  two  more  wounds,  one  at  the  Battle  of  Ypres, 
and  another  during  the  fighting  around  Loos. 

He  was  in  an  English  hospital  when  America  entered 
the  war,  but  he  hurried  his  convalescence  and  obtained 
a  transfer  back  to  the  army  of  his  own  country.  He 
hadn't  regained  as  yet  the  full  use  of  his  right  hand,  his 
face  still  retained  a  hospital  pallor,  and  an  X-ray  photo- 
graph of  his  body  revealed  the  presence  of  numerous 
pieces  of  shell  still  lodged  there.  But  on  that  night 
of  January  21st,  he  could  not  conceal  the  pride  that  he 
felt  in  the  honour  in  having  been  the  one  chosen  to  com- 
mand the  battalion  of  Americans  that  was  to  take  over 
the  first  American  sector  in  France.  Major  Griffiths 
survived  those  strenuous  days  on  the  Pont-a-Mousson 
front,  but  he  received  a  fatal  wound  three  months  later 
at  the  head  of  his  battalion  in  front  of  Catigny,  in 
Picardy.     He  died  fighting  under  his  own  flag. 

Just  before  daylight  failed  that  wintry  day,  three 
poilus  walked  down  the  road  from  the  front  and  into 


162  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


Ansauville.  Two  of  them  were  helping  a  third,  whose 
bandaged  arm  and  shoulder  explained  the  mission  of 
the  party.  As  they  passed  the  rolling  kitchens  where 
the  Americans  were  receiving  their  last  meal  before  en- 
tering the  trenches,  there  was  silence  and  not  even  an 
exchange  of  greetings  or  smiles. 

This  lack  of  expression  only  indicated  the  depth  of 
feeling  stirred  by  the  appearance  of  this  wounded  French 
soldier.  The  incident,  although  comparatively  trivial, 
seemed  to  arouse  within  our  men  a  solemn  grimness  and 
a  more  fervent  determination  to  pay  back  the  enemy 
in  kind.  In  silence,  our  men  finished  that  last  meal, 
which  consisted  of  cold  corned  beef,  two  slices  of  dry 
bread  per  man,  and  coffee. 

The  sight  of  that  one  wounded  man  did  not  make  our 
boys  realise  more  than  they  already  did,  what  was  in 
front  of  them.  They  had  already  made  a  forty  mile 
march  over  frozen  roads  up  to  this  place  and  had  in- 
curred discomforts  seemingly  greater  than  a  shell-shat- 
tered arm  or  a  bullet-fractured  shoulder.  After  that 
gruelling  hiking  experience,  it  was  a  pleasant  prospect  to 
look  forward  to  a  chance  of  venting  one's  feelings  on 
the  enemy. 

At  the  same  time,  no  chip-on-the-shoulder  cockiness 
marked  the  disposition  of  these  men  about  to  take  first 
grips  with  the  Germans, — no  challenging  bravado  was 
revealed  in  the  actions  or  statements  of  these  grim, 
serious  trail-blazers  of  the  American  front,  whose  atti- 
tude appeared  to  be  one  of  soldierly  resignation  to  the 
first  martial  principle,  "Orders  is  orders." 

As  the  companies  lined  up  in  the  village  street  in 
full  marching  order,  awaiting  the  command  to  move, 
several  half-hearted  attempts  at  jocularity  died  cold. 
One  irrepressible  made  a  futile  attempt  at  frivolity  by 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  163 

announcing  that  he  had  Cherokee  blood  in  his  veins  and 
was  so  tough  he  could  "spit  battleships."  This  attempted 
jocularitv  drew  as  much  mirth  as  an  undertaker's  final 
invitation  to  the  mourners  to  take  the  last,  long  look  at 
the  departed. 

One  bright-faced  youngster  tingling  with  the  thrill  of 
anticipation,  leaped  on  a  gun  carriage  and  absently 
whistled  a  shrill  medley,  beginning  with  "Yaka-hula," 
and  ending  with  "Just  a  Song  at  Twilight."  There  was 
food  for  thought  in  the  progress  of  his  efforts  from  the 
frivolous  to  the  pensive,  but  there  was  little  time  for  such 
thoughts.      No  one  even  told  him  to  shut  up. 

While  there  was  still  light,  an  aerial  battle  took  place 
overhead.  For  fifteen  minutes,  the  French  anti-aircraft 
guns  banged  away  at  three  German  planes,  which  were 
audaciously  sailing  over  our  lines.  The  Americans 
rooted  like  bleacherites  for  the  guns  but  the  home  team 
failed  to  score,  and  the  Germans  sailed  serenely  home. 
They  apparently  had  had  time  to  make  adequate  observa- 
tions. 

During  the  entire  afternoon,  German  sausage  balloons 
had  hung  high  in  the  air  back  of  the  hostile  line,  offering 
additional  advantages  for  enemy  observation.  On  the 
highroad  leading  from  Ansauville,  a  conspicuous  sign 
L'enemie  vous  voit  informed  newcomers  that  German 
eyes  were  watching  their  movements  and  could  interfere 
at  any  time  with  a  long  range  shell.  The  fact  was 
that  the  Germans  held  high  ground  and  their  glasses 
could  command  almost  all  of  the  terrain  back  of  our 
lines. 

Under  this  seemingly  eternal  espionage  punctuated  at 
intervals  by  heavy  shelling,  several  old  women  of  the 
village  had  remained  in  their  homes,  living  above  the 
ground  on  quiet  days  and  moving  their  knitting  to  the 


164  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

front  yard  dugout  at  times  when  gas  and  shell  and  bomb 
interfered.  Some  of  these  women  operated  small  shops 
in  the  front  rooms  of  their  damaged  homes  and  the 
Americans  lined  up  in  front  of  the  window  counters 
and  exchanged  dirty  French  paper  money  for  canned 
pate  de  foi  gras  or  jars  of  mustard. 

A  machine  gun  company  with  mule-drawn  carts  led  the 
movement  from  Ansauville  into  the  front.  It  was  fol- 
lowed at  fifty  yard  intervals  by  other  sections.  Progress 
down  that  road  was  executed  in  small  groups — it  was 
better  to  lose  one  whole  section  than  an  entire  com- 
pany. 

That  highroad  to  the  front,  with  its  border  of  shell- 
withered  trees,  was  revealed  that  night  against  a  bluish 
grey  horizon  occasionally  rimmed  with  red.  Against 
the  sky,  the  moving  groups  were  defined  as  impersonal 
black  blocks.  Young  lieutenants  marched  ahead  of  each 
platoon.  In  the  hazy  light,  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish 
them.  The  only  difference  was  that  their  hips  seemed 
bulkier  from  the  heavy  sacks,  field  glasses,  map  cases, 
canteens,  pistol  holsters  and  cartridge  clips. 

Each  section,  as  it  marched  out  of  the  village,  passed 
under  the  eye  of  Major  Griffiths,  who  sat  on  his  horse 
in  the  black  shadow  of  a  wall.  A  sergeant  commanding 
one  section  was  coming  toward  him. 

"Halt !"  ordered  the  Major.  "Sergeant,  where  is  your 
helmet?" 

"One  of  the  men  in  my  section  is  wearing  it,  sir," 
replied  the  Sergeant. 

"Why?"  snapped  the  Major. 

"Somebody  took  his  and  he  hadn't  any,"  said  the 
Sergeant,  "so  I  made  him  wear  mine,  sir." 

"Get  it  back  and  wear  it  yourself,"  the  Major  ordered. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  165 

"Nothing  could  hurt  the  head  of  a  man  who  couldn't 
hang  on  to  his  own  helmet." 

The  order  was  obeyed,  the  section  marched  on  and  a 
bareheaded  Irishman  out  of  hearing  of  the  Major  said. 
"I  told  the  Sergeant  not  to  make  me  wear  it;  I  don't 
need  the  damn  thing." 

Another  section  passed  forward,  the  moonlight  gleam- 
ing on  the  helmets  jauntily  cocked  over  one  ear  and 
casting  black  shadows  over  the  faces  of  the  wearers. 
From  these  shadows  glowed  red  dots  of  fire. 

"Drop  those  cigarettes,"  came  the  command  from  the 
all  watchful,  unseen  presence  mounted  on  the  horse  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall.  Automatically,  the  section  spouted 
red  arcs  that  fell  to  the  road  on  either  side  in  a  shower 
of  sparks. 

"It's  a  damn  shame  to  do  that."  Major  Griffith  spoke 
to  me  standing  beside  his  horse.  "You  can't  see  a 
cigarette  light  fifty  yards  away,  but  if  there  were  no 
orders  against  smoking,  the  men  would  be  lighting 
matches  or  dumping  pipes,  and  such  flashes  can  be  seen." 

There  was  need  for  caution.  The  enemy  was  always 
watchful  for  an  interval  when  one  organisation  was  re- 
lieving another  on  the  line.  That  period  represented 
the  time  when  an  attack  could  cause  the  greatest  confu- 
sion in  the  ranks  of  the  defenders.  But  that  night  our 
men  accomplished  the  relief  of  the  French  Moroccan 
division  then  in  the  line  without  incident. 

Two  nights  later,  in  company  with  a  party  of  corre- 
spondents, I  paid  a  midnight  visit  to  our  men  in  the 
front  line  trenches  of  that  first  American  sector.  With 
all  lights  out,  cigarettes  tabooed  and  the  siren  silenced, 
our  overloaded  motor  slushed  slowly  along  the  shell- 
pitted  roads,  carefully  skirting  groups  of  marching  men 


166  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  lumbering  supply  wagons  that  took  shape  suddenly 
out  of  the  mist-laden  road  in  front  of  us. 

Although  it  was  not  raining,  moisture  seemed  to  drip 
from  everything,  and  vapours  from  the  ground,  mixing 
with  the  fog  overhead,  almost  obscured  the  hard-working 
moon. 

In  the  greyness  of  the  night  sight  and  smell  lost  their 
keenness,  and  familiar  objects  assumed  unnatural  forms, 
grotesque  and  indistinct. 

From  somewhere  ahead  dull,  muffled  thumps  in  the  mist 
brought  memories  of  spring  house  cleaning  and  the  dust- 
ing out  of  old  cushions,  but  it  was  really  the  three-year- 
old  song  of  the  guns.  Nature  had  censored  observation 
by  covering  the  spectacle  with  the  mantle  of  indefinite- 
ness.  Still  this  was  the  big  thing  we  had  come  to  see — 
night  work  in  and  behind  the  front  lines  of  the  Ameri- 
can sector. 

We  approached  an  engineers'  dump,  where  the  phan- 
toms of  fog  gradually  materialised  into  helmeted  khaki 
figures  that  moved  in  mud  knee-deep  and  carried  boxes 
and  planks  and  bundles  of  tools.  Total  silence  covered 
all  the  activity  and  not  a  ray  of  light  revealed  what  mys- 
teries had  been  worked  here  in  surroundings  that  seemed 
no  part  of  this  world. 

An  irregular  pile  of  rock  loomed  grey  and  sinister 
before  us,  and,  looking  upward,  we  judged,  from  its 
gaping  walls,  that  it  was  the  remains  of  a  church  steeple. 
It  was  the  dominating  ruin  in  the  town  of  Beaumont. 

"Turn  here  to  the  left,"  the  officer  conducting  our  party 
whispered  into  the  ear  of  the  driver. 

The  sudden  execution  of  the  command  caused  the  offi- 
cer's helmet  to  rasp  against  that  of  the  driver  with  a 
sound  that  set  the  cautious  whispering  to  naught. 

"Park  here  in  the  shadow,"  he  continued.     "Make  no 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  167 


noise;  show  no  light.  They  dropped  shells  here  ten  min- 
utes ago.  Gentlemen,  this  is  regimental  headquarters. 
Follow  me." 

In  a  well  buttressed  cellar,  surmounted  by  a  pile  of 
ruins,  we  found  the  colonel  sitting  at  a  wooden  table  in 
front  of  a  grandfather's  clock  of  scratched  mahogany. 
He  called  the  roll — five  special  correspondents,  Captain 
Chandler,  American  press  officer,  with  a  goatee  and  fur 
coat  to  match ;  Captain  Vielcastel,  a  French  press  officer, 
who  is  a  marquis  and  speaks  English,  and  a  lieutenant 
from  brigade  headquarters,  who  already  had  been  named 
"Whispering  Willie." 

The  colonel  offered  sticks  to  those  with  the  cane  habit. 
With  two  runners  in  the  lead,  we  started  down  what  had 
been  the  main  street  of  the  ruined  village. 

"I  can't  understand  the  dropping  of  that  shell  over 
here  to-night,"  the  colonel  said.  "When  we  relieved  the 
French,  there  had  been  a  long-standing  agreement  against 
such  discourtesy.  It's  hard  to  believe  the  Boche  would 
make  a  scrap  of  paper  out  of  that  agreement.  They  must 
have  had  a  new  gunner  on  the  piece.  We  sent  back  two 
shells  into  their  regimental  headquarters.  They  have 
been  quiet  since." 

Ten  minutes'  walk  through  the  mud,  and  the  colonel 
stopped  to  announce :  "Within  a  hundred  yards  of  you,  a 
number  of  men  are  working.    Can  you  hear  'em  ?" 

No  one  could,  so  he  showed  us  a  long  line  of  sweating 
Americans  stretching  off  somewhere  into  the  fog.  Their 
job  was  more  of  the  endless  trench  digging  and  improv- 
ing behind  the  lines.  While  one  party  swung  pick  and 
spade  in  the  trenches,  relief  parties  slept  on  the  ground 
nearby.  The  colonel  explained  that  these  parties  arrived 
after  dark,  worked  all  night,  and  then  carefully  camou- 
flaged all  evidences  of  new  earth  and  departed  before 


168  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

daylight,  leaving  no  trace  of  their  night's  work  to  be  dis- 
covered by  prying  airman.  Often  the  work  was  carried 
on  under  an  intermittent  shelling,  but  that  night  only 
two  shells  had  landed  near  them. 

An  American-manned  field  gun  shattered  the  silence, 
so  close  to  us  that  we  could  feel  its  breath  and  had  a 
greater  respect  for  its  bite.  The  proximity  of  the  gun 
had  not  even  been  guessed  by  any  of  our  party.  A  yel- 
low stab  of  flame  seemed  to  burn  the  mist  through  which 
the  shell  screeched  on  its  way  toward  Germany. 

Correspondent  Junius  Woods,  who  was  wearing  an 
oversized  pair  of  hip  rubber  boots,  immediately  strapped 
the  tops  to  his  belt. 

"I  am  taking  no  chance,"  he  said ;  "I  almost  jumped 
out  of  them  that  time.  They  ought  to  send  men  out  with 
a  red  flag  before  they  pull  off  a  blast  like  that." 

The  colonel  then  left  us  and  with  the  whispering  lieu- 
tenant and  runners  in  advance,  we  continued  toward  the 
front. 

"Walk  in  parties  of  two,"  was  the  order  of  the  soft- 
toned  subaltern.  "Each  party  keep  ten  yards  apart. 
Don't  smoke.  Don't  talk.  This  road  is  reached  by  their 
field  pieces.  They  also  cover  it  with  indirect  machine 
gun  fire.  They  sniped  the  brigade  commander  right 
along  here  this  morning.  He  had  to  get  down  into  the 
mud.  I  can  afford  to  lose  some  of  you,  but  not  the  en- 
tire party.  If  anything  comes  over,  you  are  to  jump 
into  the  communicating  trenches  on  the  right  side  of 
the  road." 

His  instructions  were  obeyed  and  it  was  almost  with 
relief  that,  ten  minutes  later,  we  followed  him  down  the 
slippery  side  of  the  muddy  bank  and  landed  in  front  of 
a  dugout. 

In  the  long,  narrow,  low-ceilinged  shelter  which  com- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  169 

pletely  tunnelled  the  road  at  a  depth  of  twenty  feet,  two 
twenty-year-old  Americans  were  hugging  a  brazier  filled 
with  charcoal.  In  this  dugout  was  housed  a  group  from 
a  machine  gun  battalion,  some  of  whose  members  were 
snoring  in  a  double  tier  of  bunks  on  the  side. 

Deep  trenches  at  the  other  end  of  the  dugout  led  to 
the  gun  pits,  where  this  new  arm  of  the  service  operated 
at  ranges  of  two  miles.  These  special  squads  fired  over 
the  heads  of  those  in  front  of  them  or  over  the  contours 
of  the  ground  and  put  down  a  leaden  barrage  on  the 
front  line  of  the  Germans.  The  firing  not  only  was  in- 
direct but  was  without  correction  from  the  rectifying 
observation,  of  which  the  artillery  had  the  benefit  by 
watching  the  burst  of  their  missiles. 

Regaining  the  road,  we  walked  on  through  the  ruins 
on  the  edge  of  the  village  of  Seicheprey,  where  our  way 
led  through  a  drunken  colony  of  leaning  walls  and  brick 
piles. 

Here  was  the  battalion  headquarters,  located  under- 
neath the  old  stones  of  a  barn  which  was  topped  by  the 
barest  skeleton  of  a  roof.  What  had  been  the  first  floor 
of  the  structure  had  been  weighted  down  heavily  with 
railroad  iron  and  concrete  to  form  the  roof  of  the  com- 
mander's dugout.  The  sides  of  the  decrepit  structure 
bulged  outward  and  were  prevented  from  bursting  by 
timber  props  radiating  on  all  sides  like  the  legs  of  a  centi- 
pede.    A  mule  team  stood  in  front  of  the  dugout. 

"What's  that?"  the  whispering  lieutenant  inquired  in 
hushed  tones  from  a  soldier  in  the  road,  as  he  pointed 
over  the  mules  to  the  battalion  headquarters. 

"What's  what?"  the  soldier  replied   without  respect. 

The  obscurity  of  night  is  a  great  reducer  of  ranks. 
In  the  mist  officer  and  man  look  alike. 

"Why,  that?"  repeated  "Whispering  Willie"  in  lower, 


170  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

but  angrier  tones.  "What's  that  there?"  he  reiterated, 
pointing  at  the  mules. 

"Can't  you  see  it's  mules?"  replied  the  man  in  an  im- 
moderate tone  of  voice,  betraying  annoyance. 

We  were  spared  what  followed.  The  lieutenant  un- 
doubtedly confirmed  his  rank,  and  the  man  undoubtedly 
proffered  unto  him  the  respect  withheld  by  mistake.  When 
"Whispering  Willie"  joined  us  several  minutes  later  in 
the  dugout,  his  helmet  rode  on  the  back  of  his  head,  but 
his  dignity  was  on  straight. 

The  Battalion  Commander,  Major  Griffith,  was  so  glad 
to  see  us  that  he  sent  for  another  bottle  of  the  murky 
grey  water  that  came  from  a  well  on  one  side  of  a  well 
populated  graveyard  not  fifty  yards  from  his  post. 

"A  good  night,"  he  said;  "haven't  seen  it  so  quiet  in 
three  years.  We  have  inter-battalion  relief  on.  Some 
new  companies  are  taking  over  the  lines.  Some  of  them 
are  new  to  the  front  trenches  and  I'm  going  out  with 
you  and  put  them  up  on  their  toes.  Wait  till  I  report 
in." 

He  rang  the  field  telephone  on  the  wall  and  waited 
for  an  answer.  An  oil  lamp  hung  from  a  low  ceiling  over 
the  map  table.  In  the  hot,  smoky  air  we  quietly  held 
our  places  while  the  connection  was  made. 

"Hello,"  the  Major  said,  "operator,  connect  me  with 
Milwaukee."     Another  wait 

"Hello,  Milwaukee,  this  is  Larson.  I'm  talking  from 
Hamburg.  I'm  leaving  this  post  with  a  deck  of  cards 
and  a  runner.  If  you  want  me  you  can  get  me  at  Coney 
Island  or  Hinky  Dink's.     Wurtzburger  will  sit  in  here." 

"Some  code,  Major,"  Lincoln  Eyre,  correspondent, 
said.    "What  does  a  pack  of  cards  indicate?" 

"Why,  anybody  who  comes  out  here  when  he  doesn't 
have  to  is  a  funny  card,"  the  Major  replied,  "and  it  looks 


GRAVE  OF   FIRST   AMERICAN    KM  I  HI)    IX    FRANCE 

Translation:  Here  Lie  the  First  Soldiers  of  the  Great  Republic 
of  the  Tinted  States  of  America,  Fallen  on  French  Soil  for 
Justice  and  for  Liberty,  November  :ird,  1!>17 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  171 

as  if  I  have  a  pack  of  them  to-night.  Fritz  gets  quite  a 
few  things  that  go  over  our  wires  and  we  get  lots  of  his. 
All  are  tapped  by  induction. 

"Sometimes  the  stuff  we  get  is  important  and  some- 
times it  isn't.  Our  wire  tapping  report  last  night  car- 
ried a  passage  something  like  this : — The  German  opera- 
tor at  one  post  speaking  to  the  operator  at  another  said : 

"'Hello,  Herman,  where  did  that  last  shell  drop?' 

"Second  operator  replied,  'It  killed  two  men  in  a  ra- 
tion party  in  a  communicating  trench  and  spilt  all  the 
soup.    No  hot  food  for  you  to-night,  Rudolph.' 

"Herman  replying:  'That's  all  right.  We  have  got 
some  beer  here.' 

"Then  there  was  a  confusion  of  sounds  and  a  German 
was  heard  talking  to  some  one  in  his  dugout.     He  said : 

"  'Hurry,  here  comes  the  lieutenant !    Hide  the  can !' 

"That's  the  way  it  goes,"  added  the  Major,  "but  if 
we  heard  that  the  society  editor  of  the  Fliegende  Blaetter 
and  half  a  dozen  pencil  strafers  were  touring  the  Ger- 
man front  line,  we'd  send  'em  over  something  that  would 
start  'em  humming  a  hymn  of  hate.  If  they  knew  I  was 
joy  riding  a  party  of  correspondents  around  the  diggin's 
to-night,  they  might  give  you  something  to  write  about 
and  cost  me  a  platoon  or  two.  You're  not  worth  it. 
Come  on." 

Our  party  now  numbered  nine  and  we  pushed  off, 
stumbling  through  uneven  lanes  in  the  centre  of  dimly 
lit  ruins.  According  to  orders,  we  carried  gas  masks  in 
a  handy  position. 

This  sector  had  a  nasty  reputation  when  it  comes  to 
that  sample  of  Teutonic  culture.  Fritz's  poison  shells 
dropped  almost  noiselessly  and,  without  a  report,  broke 
open,  liberating  to  enormous  expansion  the  inclosed  gases. 
These  spread  in  all  directions,  and,  owing  to  the  lowness 


172  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  dampness  of  the  terrain,  the  poison  clouds  were  im- 
perceptible both  to  sight  or  smell.  They  clung  close  to 
the  ground  to  claim  unsuspecting  victims. 

"How  are  we  to  know  if  we  are  breathing  gas  or  not?" 
asked  the  Philadelphia  correspondent,  Mr.  Henri  Bazin. 

"That's  just  what  you  don't  know,"  replied  the  Major. 

"Then  when  will  we  know  it  is  time  to  adjust  our 
masks?"  Bazin  persisted. 

"When  you  see  some  one  fall  who  has  breathed  it," 
the  Major  said. 

"But  suppose  we  breathe  it  first?" 

"Then  you  won't  need  a  mask,"  the  Major  replied, 
"You  see,  it's  quite  simple." 

"Halt!"  The  sharp  command,  coming  sternly  but 
not  too  loud  from  somewhere  in  the  adjacent  mist, 
brought  the  party  to  a  standstill  in  the  open  on  the  edge 
of  the  village.  We  remained  notionless  while  the  Major 
advanced  upon  command  from  the  unseen.  He  rejoined 
us  in  several  minutes  with  the  remark  that  the  challenge 
had  come  from  one  of  his  old  men,  and  he  only  hoped 
the  new  companies  taking  over  the  line  that  night  were 
as  much  on  their  jobs. 

"Relief  night  always  is  trying,"  the  Major  explained. 
"Fritz  always  likes  to  jump  the  newcomers  before  they 
get  the  lay  of  the  land.  He  tried  it  on  the  last  relief, 
but  we  burnt  him." 

While  talking  the  Major  was  leading  the  way  through 
the  first  trench  I  had  ever  seen  above  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  The  bottom  of  the  trench  was  not  only  on  a 
level  with  the  surrounding  terrain,  but  in  some  places 
it  was  even  higher.  Its  walls,  which  rose  almost  to  the 
height  of  a  man's  head,  were  made  of  large  wicker  woven 
cylinders  rilled  with  earth  and  stones. 

Our  guide  informed  us  that  the  land  which  we  were 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  173 

traversing  was  so  low  that  any  trench  dug  in  the  ground 
would  simply  be  a  ditch  brimful  of  undrainable  water, 
so  that,  inasmuch  as  this  position  was  in  the  first  line 
system,  walls  had  been  built  on  either  side  of  the  path  to 
protect  passers-by  from  shell  fragments  and  indirect  ma- 
chine gun  fire.  We  observed  one  large  break  where  a 
shell  had  entered  during  the  evening. 

Farther  on,  this  communicating  passage,  which  was 
more  corridor  than  trench,  reached  higher  ground  and 
descended  into  the  earth.  We  reeled  through  its  zig- 
zag course,  staggering  from  one  slanting  corner  to 
another. 

The  sides  were  fairly  well  retained  by  French  wicker 
work,  but  every  eighth  or  tenth  duck  board  was  missing, 
making  it  necessary  for  trench  travellers  to  step  knee-deep 
in  cold  water  or  to  jump  the  gap.  Correspondent  Eyre, 
who  was  wearing  shoes  and  puttees,  abhorred  these 
breaks. 

We  passed  the  Major's  post  of  command,  which  he 
used  during  intense  action,  and  some  distance  on,  entered 
the  front  line.  With  the  Major  leading,  we  walked  up  to 
a  place  where  two  Americans  were  standing  on  a  firing 
step  with  their  rifles  extended  across  the  parapet.  They 
were  silently  peering  into  the  grey  mist  over  No  Man's 
Land.  One  of  them  looked  around  as  we  approached. 
Apparently  he  recognised  the  Major's  cane  as  a  symbol 
of  rank.     He  came  to  attention. 

"Well,"  the  Major  said,  "is  this  the  way  you  let  us 
walk  up  on  you?    Why  don't  you  challenge  me?" 

"I  saw  you  was  an  officer,  sir,"  the  man  replied. 

"Now,  you  are  absolutely  sure  I  am  your  officer?" 
the  Major  said  slowly  and  coldly,  with  emphasis  on  the 
word  "your."    "Suppose  I  tell  you  I  am  a  German  officer 


i74  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  these  men  behind  me  are  Germans.  How  do  you 
know?" 

With  a  quick  movement  the  American  brought  his 
rifle  forward  to  the  challenge,  his  right  hand  slapping  the 
wooden  butt  with  an  audible  whack. 

"Advance  one,  and  give  the  countersign,"  he  said  with 
a  changed  voice  and  manner  and  the  Major,  moving  to 
within  whispering  distance,  breathed  the  word  over  the 
man's  extended  bayonet.  Upon  hearing  it,  the  soldier 
lowered  his  gun  and  stood  at  attention. 

It  was  difficult  to  figure  whether  his  relief  over  the 
scare  was  greater  than  his  fears  of  the  censure  he  knew 
was  coming. 

"Next  time  anybody  gets  that  close  to  you  without 
being  challenged,"  the  Major  said,  "don't  be  surprised 
if  it  is  a  German.  That's  the  way  they  do  it.  They  don't 
march  in  singing  'Deutschland  Uber  Alles.' 

"If  you  see  them  first,  you  might  live  through  the  war. 
If  they  see  you  first,  we  will  have  wasted  a  lot  of  Lib- 
erty bonds  and  effort  trying  to  make  a  soldier  out  of  you. 
Now,  remember,  watch  yourself." 

We  pushed  on  encountering  longer  patches  of  trench 
where  duck  boards  were  entirely  missing  and  where  the 
wading  sometimes  was  knee-deep.  In  some  places,  either 
the  pounding  of  shells  or  the  thawing  out  of  the  ground 
had  pushed  in  the  revetments,  appreciably  narrowing  the 
way  and  making  progress  more  difficult.  Arriving  at  an 
unmanned  firing  step  large  enough  to  accommodate  the 
party,  we  mounted  and  took  a  first  look  over  the  top. 

Moonlight  now  was  stronger  through  the  mist  which 
hung  fold  over  fold  over  the  forbidden  land  between  the 
opposing  battle  lines.  At  intervals  nervous  machine  guns 
chattered   their  ghoulish  gibberish   or  tut-tut-t*d   away 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  175 

chidingly  like  finicky  spinsters.  Their  intermittent  sput- 
tering to  the  right  and  left  of  us  was  unenlightening.  We 
couldn't  tell  whether  they  were  speaking  German  or  Eng- 
lish. Occasional  bullets  whining  somewhere  through  that 
wet  air  gave  forth  sounds  resembling  the  ripping  of  linen 
sheets. 

Artillery  fire  was  the  exception  during  the  entire  night 
but  when  a  shell  did  trace  its  unseen  arc  through  the  mist 
mantle,  its  echoes  gave  it  the  sound  of  a  street  car  grind- 
ing through  an  under-river  tunnel  or  the  tube  reverbera- 
tions of  a  departing  subway  train. 

We  were  two  hundred  yards  from  the  German  front 
lines.  Between  their  trenches  and  ours,  at  this  point,  was 
low  land,  so  boggy  as  to  be  almost  impassable.  The  op- 
posing lines  hugged  the  tops  of  two  small  ridges. 

Fifty  yards  in  front  was  our  wire  barely  discernible 
in  the  fog.  The  Major  interrupted  five  wordless  reveries 
by  expressing,  with  what  almost  seemed  regretfulness, 
the  fact  that  in  all  his  fighting  experience  he  had  never 
seen  it  "so  damn  quiet."  His  observation  passed  without 
a  remark  from  us. 

The  Major  appeared  to  be  itching  for  action  and  he  got 
into  official  swing  a  hundred  yards  farther  on,  where  a 
turn  in  the  trench  revealed  to  us  the  muffled  figures  of 
two  young  Americans,  comfortably  seated  on  grenade 
boxes  on  the  firing  step. 

From  their  easy  positions  they  could  look  over  the  top 
and  watch  all  approaches  without  rising.  Each  one  had 
a  blanket  wrapped  about  his  legs  and  feet.  They  looked 
the  picture  of  ease.  Without  moving,  one,  with  his  rifle 
across  his  lap,  challenged  the  Major,  advanced  him,  and 
received  the  countersign.  We  followed  the  Major  in  time 
to  hear  his  first  remark  : 


176  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"Didn't  they  get  the  rocking  chairs  out  here  yet?"  he 
said  with  the  provoked  air  that  customarily  accompanies 
any  condemnation  of  the  quartermaster  department. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  seated  sentry.  "They  didn't  get 
here.  The  men  we  relieved  said  that  they  never  got  any- 
thing out  here." 

"Nor  the  footstools?"  the  Major  continued,  this  time 
with  an  unmistakable  tone. 

The  man  didn't  answer. 

"Do  you  two  think  you  are  taking  moon  baths  on  the 
Riviera?"  the  Major  asked  sternly.  "You  are  less  than 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  Germans.  You  are  all 
wrapped  up  like  Egyptian  mummies.  Somebody  could 
lean  over  the  top  and  snake  off  your  head  with  a  trench 
knife  before  you  could  get  your  feet  loose.  Take  those 
blankets  off  your  feet  and  stand  up." 

The  men  arose  with  alacrity,  shedding  the  blankets  and 
removing  the  grenade  box  chairs.    The  Major  continued  : 

"You  know  you  are  not  sitting  in  a  club  window  in 
Fifth  Avenue  and  watching  the  girls  go  by.  You're  not 
looking  for  chickens  out  there.  There's  a  hawk  over 
there  and  sometimes  he  carries  off  precious  little  lambs. 
Now,  the  next  time  anybody  steps  around  the  corner  of 
that  trench,  you  be  on  your  feet  with  your  bayonet  and 
gun  ready  to  mix  things." 

The  lambs  saluted  as  the  Major  moved  off  with  a  train 
of  followers  who,  by  this  time,  were  beginning  to  feel 
that  these  trenches  held  other  lambs,  only  they  carried 
notebooks  instead  of  cartridge  belts. 

Stopping  in  front  of  a  dugout,  the  Major  gathered  us 
about  to  hear  the  conversation  that  was  going  on  within. 
Through  the  cracks  of  the  door,  we  looked  down  a  flight 
of  steep  stairs,  dug  deep  into  this  battlefield  graveyard. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  177 

There  were  lights  in  the  chamber  below  and  the  sound  of 
voices  came  up  to  us.    One  voice  was  singing  softly. 

"Oh,  the  infantry,  the  infantry,  with  the  dirt  behind  their 

ears, 
The  infantry,  the  infantry,  they  don't  get  any  beers, 
The  cavalry,  the  artillery,  and  the  lousy  engineers, 
They  couldn't  lick  the  infantry  in  a  hundred  million  years." 

"I  got  a  brother  in  the  artillery,"  came  another  voice, 
"but  I  am  ready  to  disown  him.  They  talk  a  lot  about  this 
counter  battery  work,  but  it's  all  bunk.  A  battery  in  po- 
sition has  nice  deep  dugouts  and  hot  chow  all  the  time. 
They  gets  up  about  9  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  shaves 
up  all  nice  for  the  day. 

'  'Bout  10  o'clock  the  captain  says,  T  guess  we  will 
drop  a  few  shells  on  that  German  battery  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hill.'  So  they  pops  off  forty  or  fifty  rounds 
in  that  general  direction  and  don't  hit  anything  'cause  the 
German  battery  immediately  roots  down  into  its  nice,  deep 
dugouts.  As  soon  as  our  battery  lays  off  and  gets  back 
into  its  holes,  the  German  battery  comes  out  and  pops 
back  forty  or  fifty  at  'em  and,  of  course,  don't  hurt  them 
neither. 

"Then  it  is  time  for  lunch,  and  while  both  of  these  here 
batteries  is  eating,  they  get  so  sore  about  not  having  hit 
each  other  during  the  morning,  that  they  just  call  off 
counter  battery  work  for  the  day  and  turn  their  guns 
on  the  front  lines  and  blow  hell  out  of  the  infantry.  I 
haven't  got  any  use  for  an  artilleryman.  I'm  beginning 
to  think  all  of  them  Germans  and  Allies  are  alike  and  has 
an  agreement  against  the  doughboys." 

The  Major  interrupted  by  rapping  sharply  on  the 
door. 

"Come  in,"  was  the  polite  and  innocent  invitation  guile- 


178  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

lessly  spoken  from  below.  The  Major  had  his  helmet 
on,  so  he  couldn't  tear  his  hair. 

"Come  up  here,  you  idiots,  every  one  of  you." 

The  Major  directed  his  voice  down  into  the  hole  in  an 
unmistakable  and  official  tone.  There  was  a  scurrying  of 
feet  and  four  men  emerged  carrying  their  guns.  They 
were  lined  up  against  the  trench  wall. 

"At  midnight,"  the  Major  began,  "in  your  dugout  in 
the  front  line  forty  yards  from  the  Germans,  with  no 
sentry  at  the  door,  you  hear  a  knock  on  the  door  and  you 
shout,  'Come  in.'  I  commend  your  politeness,  and  I 
know  that's  what  your  mothers  taught  you  to  say  when 
visitors  come,  but  this  isn't  any  tea  fight  out  here.  One 
German  could  have  wiggled  over  the  top  here  and  stood 
in  this  doorway  and  captured  all  four  of  you  single- 
handed,  or  he  could  have  rolled  a  couple  of  bombs  down 
that  hole  and  blown  all  of  you  to  smithereens.  What's 
your  aim  in  life — hard  labour  in  a  German  prison  camp 
or  a  nice  little  wooden  cross  out  here  four  thousand  miles 
from  Punkinville?  Why  wasn't  there  any  sentry  at  that 
door?" 

The  question  remained  unanswered  but  the  incident 
had  its  effect  on  the  quartet  Without  orders,  all  four 
decided  to  spend  the  remainder  of  the  night  on  the  firing 
step  with  their  eyes  glued  on  the  enemy's  line.  They 
simply  hadn't  realised  they  were  really  in  the  war.  The 
Major  knew  this,  but  made  a  mental  reservation  of  which 
the  commander  of  this  special  platoon  got  full  benefit 
before  the  night  was  over. 

The  front  line  from  here  onward  followed  a  small 
ridge  running  generally  east  and  west,  but  now  bearing 
slightly  to  the  northward.  We  were  told  the  German  line 
ran  in  the  same  general  direction,  but  at  this  point  bore 
to  the  southward. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  179 

The  opposing  lines  in  the  direction  of  our  course  were 
converging  and  we  were  approaching  the  place  where 
they  were  the  closest  in  the  sector.  If  German  listening 
posts  heard  the  progress  of  our  party  through  the  line, 
only  a  telephone  call  back  to  the  artillery  was  necessary 
to  plant  a  shell  among  us,  as  every  point  on  the  system 
was  registered. 

As  we  silently  considered  various  eventualities  im- 
material to  the  prosecution  of  the  war  but  not  without 
personal  concern,  our  progress  was  brought  to  a  sudden 
standstill. 

"Huh-huh-halt!"  came  a  drawn-out  command  in  a 
husky,  throaty  stammer,  weaker  than  a  whisper,  from  an 
undersized  tin-hatted  youngster  planted  in  the  centre  of 
the  trench  not  ten  feet  in  front  of  us.  His  left  foot  was 
forward  and  his  bayoneted  rifle  was  held  ready  for  a 
thrust. 

"Huh-huh-huh-halt !"  came  the  nervous,  whispering 
command  again,  although  we  had  been  motionless  since 
the  first  whisper. 

We  heard  a  click  as  the  safety  catch  on  the  man's 
rifle  lock  was  thrown  off  and  the  weapon  made  ready  to 
discharge.  The  Major  was  watching  the  nervous  hand 
that  rested  none  too  steadily  on  the  trigger  stop.  He 
stepped  to  one  side,  but  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  followed 
him. 

"Huh-huh-huh-halt!    I  tuh-tuh-tell  you." 

This  time  the  whisper  vibrated  with  nervous  tension 
and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  state  of  mind  of  the 
sentry. 

"Take  it  easy,"  replied  the  Major  with  attempted 
calm.  "I'm  waiting  for  you  to  challenge  me.  Don't 
get  excited.    This  is  the  commanding  officer." 


180  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"What's  the  countersign?"  came  from  the  voice  in  a 
hard  strain. 

"Troy,"  the  Major  said,  and  the  word  seemed  to  bring 
worlds  of  reassurance  to  the  rifleman,  who  sighed  with 
relief,  but  forgot  to  move  his  rifle  until  the  Major  said : 

"Will  you  please  take  that  gun  off  me  and  put  the 
safety  back  in?" 

The  nervous  sentry  moved  the  gun  six  inches  to  the 
right  and  we  correspondents,  standing  in  back  of  the 
Major,  looked  into  something  that  seemed  as  big  as  the 
La  Salle  street  tunnel.  I  jumped  out  of  range  behind  the 
Major.  Eyre  plunged  knee-deep  into  water  out  of  range, 
and  Woods  with  the  rubber  boots  started  to  go  over  the 
top. 

The  click  of  the  replaced  safety  lock  sounded  unusu- 
ally like  the  snap  of  a  trigger,  but  no  report  followed  and 
three  hearts  resumed  their  beating. 

"There  is  no  occasion  to  get  excited,"  the  Major  said 
to  the  young  soldier  in  a  fatherly  tone.  "I'm  glad  to 
see  you  are  wide-awake  and  on  the  job.  Don't  feel  any 
fears  for  your  job  and  just  remember  that  with  that  gun 
and  bayonet  in  your  hands  you  are  better  than  any  man 
who  turns  that  trench  corner  or  crosses  out  there.  You've 
got  the  advantage  of  him,  and  besides  that  you  are  a  bet- 
ter man  than  he  is." 

The  sentry,  now  smiling,  saluted  the  Major  as  the  lat- 
ter conducted  the  party  quietly  around  the  trench  corner 
and  into  a  sap  leading  directly  out  into  No  Man's  Land. 
Twice  the  trench  passed  under  broad  belts  of  barbed  wire, 
which  we  were  cautioned  to  avoid  with  our  helmets,  be- 
cause any  sound  was  undesirable  for  obvious  reasons. 

After  several  minutes  of  this  cautious  advance,  we 
reached  a  small  listening  post  that  marked  the  closest 
point  in  the  sector  to  the  German  line.     Several  silent 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  181 

sentries  were  crouching  on  the  edge  of  the  pit.  Gunny 
sacks  covered  the  hole  and  screened  it  in  front  and  above. 
We  remained  silent  while  the  Major  in  the  lowest  whis- 
per spoke  with  a  corporal  and  learned  that  except  for 
two  or  three  occasions,  when  the  watchers  thought  they 
heard  sounds  near  our  wire,  the  night  had  been  calm. 

We  departed  as  silently  as  we  came.  The  German  line 
from  a  distance  of  forty  yards  looked  no  different  from 
its  appearance  at  a  greater  distance,  but  since  it  was 
closer,  it  was  carried  with  a  constant  tingle  of  anticipation. 

Into  another  communicating  trench  and  through  bet- 
ter walled  fortifications  of  splintered  forest,  the  Major 
led  us  to  a  place  where  the  recent  shelling  had  changed 
twenty  feet  of  trench  into  a  gaping  gulley  almost  without 
sides  and  waist-deep  in  water.  A  working  detail  was  en- 
deavouring to  repair  the  damage.  In  parties  of  two,  we 
left  the  trench  and  crossed  an  open  space  on  the  level. 
The  forty  steps  we  covered  across  that  forbidden  ground 
were  like  stolen  fruit.  Such  rapture!  Bazin,  who  was 
seeking  a  title  for  a  book,  pulled  "Eureka!" 

"Over  the  top  armed  with  a  pencil,"  he  said.  "Not  bad, 
eh?" 

Back  in  Seicheprey,  just  before  the  Major  left  us  for 
our  long  trip  back  to  quarters,  he  led  the  way  to  the  en- 
trance of  a  cemetery,  well  kept  in  the  midst  of  surround- 
ing chaos.    Graves  of  French  dead  ranged  row  upon  row. 

"I  just  wanted  to  show  you  some  of  the  fellows  that 
held  this  line  until  we  took  it  over,"  he  said  simply. 
"Our  own  boys  that  we've  lost  since  we've  been  here,  are 
buried  down  in  the  next  village." 

We  silently  saluted  the  spot  as  we  passed  it  thirty 
minutes  later. 


182 "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

CHAPTER  IX 

THE    NIGHT   OUR   GUNS    CUT    LOOSE 

As  soon  as  our  forces  had  made  themselves  at  home  in 
the  Toul  sector,  it  was  inevitable  that  belligerent  activity- 
would  increase  and  this,  in  spite  of  the  issuance  of  strict 
orders  that  there  should  be  no  development  of  the  normal 
daily  fire.  Our  men  could  not  entirely  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  start  something. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  the  Germans  soon  began  to 
suspect  that  they  were  faced  by  different  troops  from  the 
ones  who  had  been  confronting  them.  The  enemy  set 
out  to  verify  his  suspicions.  He  made  his  first  raid  on 
the  American  line. 

It  was  in  a  dense  mist  on  the  morning  of  January  30th 
that  the  Germans  lowered  a  terrific  barrage  on  one  of 
our  advance  listening  posts  and  then  rushed  the  position 
with  a  raiding  party  outnumbering  the  defendants  ten 
to  one. 

Two  Americans  held  that  post — five  more  succeeded 
in  making  their  way  through  the  storm  of  falling  shells 
and  in  coming  to  the  assistance  of  the  first  two.  That 
made  seven  Americans  in  the  fight.  When  the  fighting 
ceased,  every  one  of  the  seven  had  been  accounted  for 
in  the  three  items,  dead,  wounded  or  captured. 

That  little  handful  of  Americans,  fought,  died  or  were 
wounded  in  the  positions  which  they  had  been  ordered  to 
hold.  Although  the  engagement  was  an  extremely  minor 
one,  it  being  the  first  of  its  kind  on  the  American  sector, 
it  was  sufficient  to  give  the  enemy  some  idea  of  the  deter- 
mination and  fighting  qualities  of  the  individual  Ameri- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  183 

can  soldier.  Their  comrades  were  proud  of  them,  and 
were  inclined  to  consider  the  exploit,  "Alamo  stuff." 

Two  of  the  defenders  were  killed,  four  were  wounded, 
and  one  was  captured.  The  wounded  men  reported  that 
the  captured  American  continued  to  fight  even  after  being 
severely  wounded.  He  was  the  last  to  remain  on  his 
feet  and  when  a  bomb  blew  his  rifle  from  his  hand  and 
injured  his  arm,  he  succumbed  to  superior  numbers  and 
was  carried  off  by  his  captors. 

After  the  hurried  sortie,  the  Germans  beat  a  hasty 
retreat  so  that  the  position  was  reoccupied  immediately 
by  another  American  detail. 

The  "Alamo"  seven  had  not  been  taken  by  surprise. 
Through  a  downpour  of  rather  badly  placed  shells,  they 
held  their  position  on  the  firing  step  and  worked  both 
their  rifles  and  machine  guns  against  the  raiding  party, 
which  they  could  not  see,  but  knew  would  be  advancing 
behind  the  curtain  of  fire.  Hundreds  of  empty  cartridges 
and  a  broken  American  bayonet  constituted  impartial 
testimony  to  the  fierceness  of  the  fighting.  After  the 
first  rush,  in  which  the  defenders  accounted  for  a  num- 
ber of  Germans,  the  fighting  began  at  close  quarters,  the 
enemy  peppering  the  listening  post  with  hand  grenades. 

In  the  meantime  the  German  barrage  had  been  lifted 
and  lengthened  until  it  was  lowered  again  between  the 
"Alamo"  seven  and  their  comrades  in  the  rear. 

There  were  calls  to  surrender,  but  no  acceptances.  The 
fighting  became  hand-to-hand  with  bayonet  and  gun  butt. 
The  defenders  fought  on  in  the  hope  that  assistance  soon 
would  arrive  from  the  American  artillery. 

But  the  Germans  had  planned  the  raid  well.  Their  first 
barrage  cut  all  telephone  wires  leading  back  from  our 
front  lines  and  the  signal  rocket  which  one  of  the  men  in 
the  listening  post  had  fired  into  the  air,  had  been  smoth- 


184  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ered  in  the  dense  mist.  That  rocket  had  called  for  a 
defensive  barrage  from  American  artillery  and  when 
no  answer  came  to  it,  a  second  one  was  fired,  but  that 
also  was  snuffed  out  by  the  fog. 

The  net  result  of  the  raid  was  that  the  Germans  had 
captured  one  of  our  wounded  men  and  had  thereby  iden- 
tified the  organisation  opposing  them  as  the  First  Regu- 
lar Division  of  the  United  States  Army,  composed  of 
the  16th,  18th,  26th,  and  28th  Regular  U.  S.  Infantry 
Regiments  and  the  5th,  6th  and  7th  Regular  U.  S.  Army 
Field  Artillery.  The  division  was  under  the  command 
of  Major  General  Robert  Lee  Bullard. 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed,  the  daily  exchange 
of  shells  on  the  sector  increased  to  two  and  three  times 
the  number  it  had  been  before  our  men  arrived  there. 
There  were  nightly  patrols  in  No  Man's  Land  and 
several  instances  where  these  patrols  met  in  the  dark  and 
engaged  one  another  with  casualties  on  both  sides. 

One  night  a  little  over  a  month  later — the  early  morn- 
ing of  March  4th,  to  be  exact — it  was  my  privilege  to 
witness  from  an  exceptional  vantage  point,  the  first 
planned  and  concentrated  American  artillery  action 
against  the  enemy.  The  German  lines  selected  for  this 
sudden  downpour  of  shell,  comprised  two  small  salients 
jutting  out  from  the  enemy's  positions  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  ruined  village  of  Lahayville,  in  the  same  sector. 

In  company  with  an  orderly  who  had  been  despatched 
as  my  guide,  I  started  from  an  artillery  battalion  head- 
quarters shortly  before  midnight,  and  together  we  made 
our  way  up  the  dark  muddy  road  that  led  through  the 
dense  Bois  de  la  Reine  to  the  battery  positions.  Half  an 
hour's  walk  and  O'Neil,  the  guide,  led  me  off  the  road 
into  a  darker  tunnel  of  overlaced  boughs  where  we 
stumbled  along  on  the  ties  of  a  narrow  gauge  railroad 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  185 

that  conveyed  heavy  shells  from  the  road  to  the  guns. 
We  passed  through  several  gun  pits  and  stopped  in  front 
of  a  huge  abri  built  entirely  above  ground. 

Its  walls  and  roof  must  have  been  between  five  and 
seven  feet  thick  and  were  made  from  layers  of  logs, 
sandbags,  railroad  iron  and  slabs  of  concrete  reinforced 
with  steel.    It  looked  impenetrable. 

"Battery  commander's  headquarters,"  O'Neil  said  to 
me  as  we  entered  a  small  hot  room  lighted  by  two  oil 
lamps  and  a  candle.  Three  officers,  at  two  large  map 
tables,  were  working  on  sheets  of  figures.  Two  wooden 
bunks,  one  above  the  other,  and  two  posts  supporting  the 
low  ceiling  completed  the  meagre  furnishings  of  the 
room.  A  young  officer  looked  up  from  his  work,  O'Neil 
saluted,  and  addressed  him. 

"The  Major  sent  me  up  with  this  correspondent.  He 
said  you  could  let  him  go  wherever  he  could  see  the  fun 
and  that  you  are  not  responsible  for  his  safety."  O'Neil 
caught  the  captain's  smile  at  the  closing  remark  and 
withdrew.    The  captain  showed  me  the  map. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said,  indicating  a  spot  with  his 
finger,  "and  here's  what  we  are  aiming  at  to-night.  There 
are  two  places  you  can  stay  to  see  the  fun.  You  can  stay 
in  this  shelter  and  hear  the  sound  of  it,  or  you  can  go  up 
a  little  further  front  to  this  point,  and  mount  the  plat- 
form in  our  observation  tree.  In  this  abri  you  are  safe 
from  splinters  and  shrapnel  but  a  direct  hit  would  wipe 
us  out.  In  the  tree  you  are  exposed  to  direct  hits  and 
splinters  from  nearby  bursts  but  at  least  you  can  see 
the  whole  show.  It's  the  highest  point  around  here  and 
overlooks  the  whole  sector." 

I  sensed  that  the  captain  expected  a  busy  evening  and 
looked  forward  with  no  joy  to  possible  interference  from 
a  questioning  visitor,  so  I  chose  the  tree. 


186  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "you've  got  helmet  and  gas  masks, 
I  see.  Now  how's  your  watch  ?  Take  the  right  time  off 
mine.  We  have  just  synchronised  ours  with  headquar- 
ters.   Zero  is  one  o'clock.    You  had  better  start  now." 

He  called  for  an  orderly  with  a  German  name,  and  the 
two  of  us  left.  Before  I  was  out  of  the  room,  the  cap- 
tain had  returned  to  his  mathematics  and  was  figuring 
out  the  latest  range  variations  and  making  allowances 
for  latest  developments  in  wind,  temperature  and  barom- 
eter. The  orderly  with  the  German  name  and  I  plunged 
again  into  the  trees  and  brought  up  shortly  on  the  edge 
of  a  group  of  men  who  were  standing  in  the  dark  near 
a  large  tree  trunk.  I  could  hear  several  other  men  and 
some  stamping  horses  off  to  one  side. 

The  party  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  was  composed  of  ob- 
servers, signal  linemen  and  runners.  All  of  them  were 
enlisted  men.  I  inquired  who  were  to  be  my  comrades  in 
the  tree  top  and  three  presented  themselves.  One  said 
his  name  was  Pat  Guahn,  the  second  gave  his  as  Peter 
Griffin  and  the  third  acknowledged  Mike  Stanton.  I 
introduced  myself  and  Griffin  said,  "I  see  we  are  all 
from  the  same  part  of  Italy." 

At  twenty  minutes  to  one,  we  started  up  the  tree, 
mounting  by  rudely  constructed  ladders  that  led  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  four  crudely  fashioned  platforms. 
We  reached  the  top  breathless  and  with  no  false  impres- 
sions about  the  stability  of  our  swaying  perch.  The  tree 
seemed  to  be  the  tallest  in  the  forest  and  nothing  inter- 
fered with  our  forward  view.  The  platform  was  a  bit 
shaky  and  Guahn  out  my  thoughts  to  words  and  music  by 
softly  singing — 

"Rock-a-bye  baby,  in  the  tree  top, 
When  the  shell  comes  the  runners  all  flop, 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  187 

When  the  shell  busts,  good-bye  to  our  station, 
We're  up  in  a  tree,  bound  for  damnation." 

The  compass  gives  us  north  and  we  locate  in  the  for- 
ward darkness  an  approximate  sweep  of  the  front  lines. 
Guahn  is  looking  for  the  flash  of  a  certain  German  gun 
and  it  will  be  his  duty  to  keep  his  eyes  trained  through 
the  fork  of  a  certain  marked  twig  within  arm's  reach. 

"If  she  speaks,  we  want  to  know  it,"  Guahn  says;  "I 
can  see  her  from  here  when  she  flashes  and  there's  an- 
other man  who  can  see  her  from  another  place.  You  see 
we  get  an  intersection  of  angles  on  her  and  then  we  know 
where  she  is  just  as  though  she  had  sent  her  address. 
Two  minutes  later  we  drop  a  card  on  her  and  keep  '.ler 
warm." 

"Is  that  that  gun  from  Russia  we  heard  about?"  Grif- 
fin asks. 

"No,"  answers  Guahn,  "we  are  not  looking  for  her 
from  that  station.  Besides,  she  isn't  Russian.  She  was 
made  by  the  British,  used  by  the  Russians,  captured  by 
the  Germans  and  in  turn  is  used  by  them  against  Ameri- 
cans. We  have  found  pieces  of  her  shell  and  they  all 
have  an  English  trade  mark  on  them.  She  fires  big 
eight  inch  stuff." 

Griffin  is  watching  in  another  direction  for  another 
flash  and  Stanton  is  on  the  lookout  for  signal  flares  and 
the  flash  of  a  signal  light  projector  which  might  be  used 
in  case  the  telephone  communication,  is  disturbed  by 
enemy  fire.  It  is  then  that  the  runners  at  the  base  of 
the  tree  must  carry  the  message  back  by  horse. 

Only  an  occasional  thump  is  heard  forward  in  the 
darkness.  Now  and  then  machine  guns  chatter  insanely 
as  they  tuck  a  seam  in  the  night.     At  infrequent  inter- 


188  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

vals,  a  star  shell  curves  upward,  bursts,  suspends  its 
silent  whiteness  in  mid-air,  and  dies. 

In  our  tree  top  all  seems  quiet  and  so  is  the  night. 
There  is  no  moon  and  only  a  few  stars  are  out.  A  pene- 
trating dampness  takes  the  place  of  cold  and  there  is  that 
in  the  air  that  threatens  a  change  of  weather. 

The  illuminated  dial  of  my  watch  tells  me  that  it  is 
three  minutes  of  one  and  I  communicate  the  information 
to  the  rest  of  the  Irish  quartet.  In  three  minutes,  the 
little  world  that  we  look  upon  from  our  tree  top  is  due 
to  change  with  terrific  suddenness  and  untold  possibil- 
ities. 

Somewhere  below  in  the  darkness  and  to  one  side,  I 
hear  the  clank  of  a  ponderous  breech  lock  as  the  mech- 
anism is  closed  on  a  shell  in  one  of  the  heavy  guns. 
Otherwise  all  remains  silent. 

Two  minutes  of  one.  Each  minute  seems  to  drag  like 
an  hour.  It  is  impossible  to  keep  one's  mind  off  that 
unsuspecting  group  of  humans  out  there  in  that  little 
section  of  German  trench  upon  which  the  heavens  are 
about  to  fall.  Griffin  leans  over  the  railing  and  calls  to 
the  runners  to  stand  by  the  horses'  heads  until  they  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  coming  roar. 

One  minute  of  one.    We  grip  the  railing  and  wait. 

Two  flashes  and  two  reports,  the  barest  distinguishable 
interval,  and  the  black  horizon  belches  red.  From  ex- 
treme left  to  extreme  right  the  flattened  proscenium  in 
front  of  us  glows  with  the  ghastliness  of  the  Broockon. 

Waves  of  light  flush  the  dark  vault  above  like  the  night 
sky  over  South  Chicago's  blast  furnaces.  The  heavens 
reflect  the  glare.  The  flashes  range  in  colour  from  blind- 
ing yellow  to  the  softest  tints  of  pink.  They  seem  to 
form  themselves  from  strange  combinations  of  greens 
and  mauves  and  lavenders. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  189 

The  sharp  shattering  crash  of  the  guns  reaches  our 
ears  almost  on  the  instant.  The  forest  shakes  and  our 
tree  top  sways  with  the  slam  of  the  heavies  close  by.  The 
riven  air  whimpers  with  the  husky  whispering  of  the 
rushing  load  of  metal  bolts  passing  above  us. 

Looking  up  into  that  void,  we  deny  the  uselessness  of 
the  act  and  seek  in  vain  to  follow  the  trains  of  those  un- 
seen things  that  make  the  air  electric  with  their  presence. 
We  hear  them  coming,  passing,  going,  but  see  not  one 
of  them. 

"There's  whole  blacksmith's  shops  sailing  over  our 
heads  on  the  way  to  Germany,"  Pat  Guahn  shouts  in  my 
ear.  "I  guess  the  Dutchman  sure  knows  how  to  call  for 
help.  He  doesn't  care  for  that  first  wallop,  and  he 
thinks  he  would  like  about  a  half  million  reserves  from 
the  Russian  front." 

"That  darkness  out  in  No  Man's  Land  don't  make  any 
hit  with  him  either,"  Stanton  contributes.  "He's  got  it 
lit  up  so  bright  I'm  homesick  for  Broadway." 

Now  comes  the  thunder  of  the  shell  arrivals.  You 
know  the  old  covered  wooden  bridges  that  are  still  to 
be  found  in  the  country.  Have  you  ever  heard  a  team 
of  horses  and  a  farm  wagon  thumping  and  rumbling  over 
such  a  bridge  on  the  trot? 

Multiply  the  horse  team  a  thousand  times.  Lash  the 
animals  from  the  trot  to  the  wild  gallop.  Imagine  the 
sound  of  their  stampede  through  the  echoing  wooden 
structure  and  you  approach  in  volume  and  effect  the 
rumble  and  roar  of  the  steel  as  it  rained  down  on  that 
little  German  salient  that  night. 

"Listen  to  them  babies  bustin',"  says  Griffin.  "I'm 
betting  them  groundhogs  is  sure  huntin'  their  holes  right 
now  and  trying  to  dig  clear  through  to  China." 

That  was  the  sound  and  sight  of  that  opening  salvo 


i9o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT ^ 

from  all  guns,  from  the  small  trench  mortars  in  the  line, 
the  lightest  field  pieces  behind  them,  the  heavy  field  pieces 
about  us  and  the  ponderous  railroad  artillery  located 
behind  us. 

Its  crash  has  slashed  the  inkiness  in  front  of  us  with 
a  lurid  red  meridian.  I  don't  know  how  many  hands  had 
pulled  lanyards  on  exactly  the  same  instant  but  the  con- 
sequent spread  of  fire  looked  like  one  continuous  flame. 

Now  the  "seventy-fives"  are  speaking,  not  in  unison, 
but  at  various  speeds,  limited  only  by  the  utmost  celerity 
of  the  sweating  gun  crews. 

But  the  German  front  line  is  not  the  only  locality  re- 
ceiving unsolicited  attention.  Enemy  gun  positions  far 
behind  the  lines  are  being  plastered  with  high  explosives 
and  anesthetised  with  gas  shells. 

So  effective  is  the  American  artillery  neutralisation  of 
the  German  batteries,  that  it  is  between  fifteen  and  twenty 
minutes  before  the  first  enemy  gun  replies  to  the  terrific 
barrage.  And  though  expected  momentarily,  a  German 
counter  barrage  fails  to  materialise. 

In  our  tree  top  we  wait  for  the  enemy's  counter  shell- 
ing but  the  retaliation  does  not  develop.  When  occupy- 
ing an  exposed  position,  the  suspense  of  waiting  for  an 
impending  blow  increases  in  tenseness  as  the  delay  con- 
tinues and  the  expectations  remain  unrealised.  With  no 
inclination  to  be  unreasonable,  one  even  prays  for  the 
speedy  delivery  of  the  blow  in  the  same  way  that  the 
man  with  the  aching  tooth  urges  the  dentist  to  speed  up 
and  have  it  over  with. 

"Why  in  hell  don't  they  come  back  at  us?"  Griffin 
asks.  "I've  had  myself  all  tuned  up  for  the  last  twenty 
minutes  to  have  a  leg  blown  off  and  be  thankful.  I  hate 
this  waiting  stuff." 

"Keep  your  shirt  on,  Pete,"  Stanton  remarks.     "Give 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  191 

'em  a  chance  to  get  their  breath  and  come  out  of  their 
holes.  That  barrage  drove  'em  down  a  couple  hundred 
feet  into  the  ground  and  they  haven't  any  elevators  to 
come  up  on.     We'll  hear  from  'em  soon  enough." 

We  did,  but  it  was  not  more  than  a  whisper  as  com- 
pared with  what  they  were  receiving  from  our  side  of  the 
line.  The  German  artillery  came  into  lethargic  action 
after  the  American  barrage  had  been  in  constant  opera- 
tion for  thirty  minutes  and  then  the  enemy's  fire  was  only 
desultory.  Only  an  occasional  shell  from  Kulturland 
came  our  way,  and  even  they  carried  a  rather  tired,  list- 
less buzz,  as  though  they  didn't  know  exactly  where  they 
were  going  and  didn't  care. 

Six  or  eight  of  them  hummed  along  a  harmless  orbit 
not  far  above  our  tree  top  and  fell  in  the  forest.  It  cer- 
tainly looked  as  though  we  were  shooting  all  the  hard- 
stuff  and  the  German  end  of  the  fireworks  party  was  all 
coloured  lights  and  Roman  candles.  Of  the  six  shells 
that  passed  us,  three  failed  to  explode  upon  landing. 

"That  makes  three  dubs,"  said  Guahn. 

"You  don't  mean  dubs,"  Stanton  corrected  him,  "you 
mean  duds  and  even  then  you  are  wrong.  Those  were 
gas  pills.  They  just  crack  open  quietly  so  you  don't  know 
it  until  you've  sniffed  yourself  dead.  Listen,  you'll  hear 
the  gas  alert  soon." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  we  heard  through  the  firing  the 
throaty  gurgling  of  the  sirens.  The  alarm  started  on 
our  right  and  spread  from  station  to  station  through  the 
woods.  We  adjusted  the  respirators  and  turned  our 
muffled  faces  toward  the  firing  line.  Through  the  mois- 
ture fogged  glasses  of  my  mask,  I  looked  first  upon  my 
companions  on  this  rustic  scaffold  above  the  forest. 

War's  demands  had  removed  our  appearances  far  from 
the  human.     Our  heads  were  topped  with  uncomfortable 


192  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

steel  casques,  harder  than  the  backs  of  turtles.  Our  eyes 
were  large,  flat,  round  glazed  surfaces  unblinking  and 
owl-like.  Our  faces  were  shapeless  folds  of  black  rub- 
ber cloth.  Our  lungs  sucked  air  through  tubes  from  a 
canvass  bag  under  our  chins  and  we  were  inhabiting  a 
tree  top  like  a  family  of  apes.  It  really  required  imagina- 
tion to  make  it  seem  real. 

"Looks  like  the  party  is  over,"  came  the  muffled  re- 
mark from  the  masked  figure  beside  me.  The  cannonad- 
ing was  dying  down  appreciably.  The  blinking  line  of 
lights  in  front  of  us  grew  less. 

A  terrific  upward  blast  of  red  and  green  flame  from 
the  ground  close  to  our  tree,  reminded  us  that  one  heavy 
still  remained  under  firing  orders.  The  flash  seen  through 
the  forest  revealed  in  intricate  tracings  the  intertwining 
limbs  and  branches  of  the  trees.  It  presented  the  appear- 
ance of  a  piece  of  strong  black  lace  spread  out  and  held 
at  arm's  length  in  front  of  a  glowing  grate. 

From  the  German  lines  an  increased  number  of  flares 
shot  skyward  and  as  the  cannon  cracks  ceased,  save  for 
isolated  booms,  the  enemy  machine  guns  could  be  heard 
at  work,  riveting  the  night  with  sprays  of  lead  and  sound- 
ing for  all  the  world  like  a  scourge  of  hungry  wood- 
peckers. 

"God  help  any  of  the  doughboys  that  are  going  up 
against  any  of  that  stuff,"  Griffin  observed  through  his 
mask. 

"Don't  worry  about  our  doughboys,"  replied  Stan- 
ton ;  "they  are  all  safe  in  their  trenches  now.  That's 
most  likely  the  reason  why  our  guns  were  ordered  to  lay 
off.  I  guess  Fritzie  got  busy  with  his  typewriters  too 
late." 

I  descended  the  tree,  leaving  my  companions  to  wait 
for  the  orders  necessary  for  their  departure.    Unfamiliar 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  193 

with  the  unmarked  paths  of  the  forest  and  guided  only 
as  to  general  directions,  I  made  my  way  through  the 
trees  some  distance  in  search  of  the  road  back  from  the 
front. 

A  number  of  mud  and  water-filled  shell  holes  inter- 
vened to  make  the  exertion  greater  and  consequently  the 
demand  upon  lungs  for  air  greater.  After  floundering 
several  kilometres  through  a  strange  forest  with  a  gas 
mask  on,  one  begins  to  appreciate  the  temptation  that 
comes  to  tear  off  the  stifling  nose  bag  and  risk  asphyxia- 
tion for  just  one  breath  of  fresh  air. 

A  babel  of  voices  in  the  darkness  to  one  side  guided 
me  to  a  log  cabin  where  I  learned  from  a  sentry  that 
the  gas  scare  had  just  been  called  off.  Continuing  on 
the  road,  I  collided  head  on  in  the  darkness  with  a  walk- 
ing horse.  Its  rider  swore  and  so  did  I,  with  slightly 
the  advantage  over  him  as  his  head  was  still  encased.  I 
told  him  the  gas  alarm  was  off  and  he  tore  away  the 
mask  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  I  left  him  while  he  was  re- 
moving the  horse's  gas  mask. 

A  light  snow  was  beginning  to  fall  as  I  said  good- 
night to  the  battalion  commander  in  front  of  his  roadside 
shack.  A  party  of  mounted  runners  was  passing  on  the 
way  to  their  quarters.  With  an  admirable  lack  of  dignity 
quite  becoming  a  national  guard  cavalry  major  in  com- 
mand of  regular  army  artillery,  he  said : 

"Good-night,  men,  we  licked  hell  out  of  them." 

The  Toul  sector,  during  its  occupation  by  Americans, 
always  maintained  a  high  daily  rating  of  artillery  activ- 
ity. The  opposing  forces  were  continually  planning  sur- 
prises on  one  another.  At  any  minute  of  the  night  or 
day  a  terrific  bombardment  of  high  explosive  or  gas 
might  break  out  on  either  side.    Both  sides  operated  their 


194  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

sound  ranging  apparatus  to  a  rather  high  degree  of 
efficiency. 

By  these  delicate  instruments  we  could  locate  the  ex- 
act position  of  an  unseen  enemy  battery.  Following  that 
location,  the  battery  would  immediately  be  visited  with 
a  concentrated  downpour  of  hot  steel  intended  to  wipe  it 
out  of  existence.  The  enemy  did  as  much  for  us,  so 
that  in  the  artillery,  when  the  men  were  not  actually 
manning  the  guns  in  action,  they  were  digging  gun  pits 
for  reserve  positions  which  they  could  occupy  if  the 
enemy  happened  to  get  the  proper  range  of  the  old 
positions.  In  this  casual  counter-battery  work  our  artil- 
lery adopted  a  system  by  which  many  lives  were  saved. 

If  a  German  battery  began  shelling  one  of  our  battery 
positions,  the  artillerymen  in  that  position  were  not  called 
upon  to  stand  by  their  guns  and  return  the  fire.  The 
order  would  be  given  to  temporarily  abandon  the  position 
and  the  men  would  be  withdrawn  a  safe  distance.  The 
German  battery  that  was  firing  would  be  responded  to, 
two  to  one,  by  other  American  batteries  located  nearby 
and  which  did  not  happen  to  be  under  fire  at  the  time. 
By  this  system  we  conserved  our  strength. 

Our  infantry  was  strong  in  their  praise  of  the  artil- 
lery. I  observed  this  particularly  one  day  on  the  Toul 
front  when  General  Pershing  dropped  in  unexpectedly 
at  the  division  headquarters,  then  located  in  the  hillside 
village  of  Bourcq.  While  the  commander  and  his  party 
were  awaiting  a  meal  which  was  being  prepared,  four 
muddy  figures  tramped  down  the  hallway  of  the  Chateau. 
Through  the  doorway  the  general  observed  their  entrance. 

The  two  leading  figures  were  stolid  German  soldiers, 
prisoners  of  war,  and  behind  them  marched  their  captors, 
two  excusably  proud  young  Americans.  One  of  them 
carried  his  bayoneted  rifle  at  the  ready,  while  the  second 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  195 

carried  the  equipment  which  had  been  taken  from  the 
prisoners.  The  American  commander  ordered  the  group 
brought  before  him  and  asked  one  of  the  Americans  to 
relate  the  story  of  the  capture. 

"We  in  the  infantry  got  'em,  sir,"  replied  one,  "but 
the  artillery  deserved  most  of  the  credit.  It  happened 
just  at  dawn  this  morning.  Jim  here,  and  myself,  were 
holding  down  an  advance  machine  gun  post  when  the 
Germans  laid  down  a  flock  of  shells  on  our  first  line 
trench.  We  just  kept  at  the  gun  ready  to  let  them  have 
it  if  they  started  to  come  over. 

"Pretty  soon  we  saw  them  coming  through  the  mist  and 
we  began  to  put  it  to  'em.  I  think  we  got  a  bunch  of 
them  but  they  kept  on  coming. 

"Then  somebody  back  in  our  first  line  shot  up  the 
signal  for  a  barrage  in  our  sector.  It  couldn't  have  been 
a  minute  before  our  cannon  cut  loose  and  the  shells  began 
to  drop  right  down  in  the  middle  of  the  raiding  party. 

"It  was  a  good  heavy  barrage,  sir,  and  it  cut  clean 
through  the  centre  of  the  raiders.  Two  Germans  were 
ahead  of  the  rest  and  the  barrage  landed  right  in  back  of 
them.  The  rest  started  running  back  toward  their  lines, 
but  the  first  pair  could  not  go  back  because  they  would 
have  had  to  pass  through  the  barrage.  I  kept  the  machine 
gun  going  all  the  time  and  Jim  showed  himself  above  the 
trench  and  pointed  his  rifle  at  the  cut-off  pair. 

"They  put  up  their  hands  right  quick  and  we  waved  to 
'em  to  come  in.  They  took  it  on  the  jump  and  landed 
in  our  trench  as  fast  as  they  could.  We  took  their  equip- 
ment off  them  and  we  were  ordered  to  march  them  back 
here  to  headquarters.    That's  all  there  was  to  it,  sir." 

The  enemy  in  front  of  Toul  manifested  an  inordinate 
anxiety  to  know  more  about  the  strength  of  our  forces 
and  the  character  of  the  positions  we  occupied.     A  cap- 


196  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

tured  German  document  issued  to  the  Fifth  Bavarian 
Landwehr  infantry  brigade  instructed  every  observer  and 
patrol  to  do  his  or  its  best  "to  bring  information  about 
the  new  enemy." 

"Nothing  is  known  as  yet  about  the  methods  of  fight- 
ing or  leadership,"  the  document  set  forth,  "and  all  in- 
formation possible  must  be  gathered  as  to  particular  fea- 
tures of  American  fighting  and  outpost  tactics.  This 
will  then  be  used  for  extending  the  information  bulletin. 
Any  observation  or  identification,  however  insignificant, 
may  be  of  the  greatest  value." 

The  document  directed  that  data  on  the  following  ques- 
tions be  obtained  : 

"Are  sentry  posts  sentry  posts  or  stronger  posts? 
Further  advanced  reconnoitring  patrols?  Manner  of 
challenging?  Behaviour  on  post  during  day  and  night? 
Vigilance?     Ambush  tactics  and  cunning? 

"Do  they  shoot  and  signal  on  every  occasion?  Do 
the  posts  hold  their  ground  on  the  approach  of  a  patrol, 
or  do  they  fall  back  ? 

"Are  the  Americans  careful  and  cautious?  Are  they 
noisy?    What  is  their  behaviour  during  smoke  screens?" 

The  enemy's  keen  desire  to  acquire  this  information 
was  displayed  in  the  desperate  efforts  it  made.  One  day 
the  French  troops  occupying  the  trenches  on  the  right 
flank  of  the  American  sector,  encountered  a  soldier  in 
an  American  uniform  walking  through  their  positions. 

He  was  stopped  and  questioned.  He  said  he  had  been 
one  of  an  American  patrol  that  had  gone  out  the  night 
before,  that  he  had  lost  his  way  in  No  Man's  Land 
and  that  he  thought  he  was  returning  to  his  own  trenches, 
when  he  dropped  into  those  held  by  the  French. 

Although  the  man  wore  our  uniform  and  spoke  excel- 
lent English  and  seemed  straightforward  in  his  replies, 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  197 

as  to  his  name  and  rank  and  organisation,  the  French 
officer  before  whom  he  was  brought  was  not  completely 
satisfied.  To  overcome  this  hesitancy,  the  suspected 
man  opened  his  shirt  and  produced  an  American  iden- 
tification tag  verifying  his  answers. 

The  French  officer,  still  suspicious,  ordered  the  man 
held  while  he  telephoned  to  the  American  organisation 
mentioned  to  ascertain  whether  any  man  of  the  name 
given  was  missing  from  that  unit. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  American  captain.  "We  lost  him 
last  October,  when  we  were  in  the  front  line  down  in  the 
Luneville  sector.  He  was  captured  with  eight  others 
by  the  Germans." 

"Well,  we've  got  him  over  here  on  your  right  flank. 
He  came  into  our  lines  this  morning — "  the  French  offi- 
cer started  to  say. 

"Bully,"  came  the  American  interruption  over  the 
wire.  "He's  escaped  from  the  Germans  and  has  come 
clear  through  their  lines  to  get  back  to  his  company.  He'll 
get  a  D.  S.  C.  for  that.    We'll  send  right  over  for  him." 

"But  when  we  questioned  him,"  replied  the  French- 
man, "he  said  he  left  your  lines  only  last  night  on  patrol 
and  got  lost  in  No  Man's  Land." 

"I'll  come  right  over  and  look  at  that  party,  myself," 
the  American  captain  hastily  replied. 

He  reached  the  French  officer's  dugout  several  hours 
later  and  the  suspect  was  ordered  brought  in. 

"He  must  be  crazy,  sir,"  the  French  orderly  said. 
"He  tried  to  kill  himself  a  few  minutes  ago  and  we  have 
had  to  hold  him." 

The  man  was  brought  into  the  dugout  between  two 
poilus  who  held  his  arms.  The  American  captain  took 
a  careful  look  and  said : 

"That's  not  our  man.    He  wears  our  uniform  correctly 


198  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  that's  our  regulation  identification  tag.  Both  of 
them  must  have  been  taken  away  from  our  man  when 
he  was  captured.    This  man  is  an  impostor." 

"He's  more  than  that,"  replied  the  Frenchman  with  a 
smile.     "He's  a  German  spy." 

The  prisoner  made  no  reply,  but  later  made  a  full 
confession  of  his  act,  and  also  gave  to  his  interrogators 
much  valuable  information,  which,  however,  did  not 
save  him  from  paying  the  penalty  in  front  of  a  firing 
squad.  When  he  faced  the  rifles,  he  was  not  wearing 
the  stolen  uniform. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  199 

CHAPTER  X 

INTO  TICARDY  TO  MEET  THE  GERMAN  PUSH 

Toward  the  end  of  March,  1918,  just  at  the  time  when 
the  American  Expeditionary  Forces  were  approaching  the 
desired  degree  of  military  effectiveness,  the  fate  of  civ- 
ilisation was  suddenly  imperilled  by  the  materialisation 
of  the  long  expected  German  offensive. 

This  push,  the  greatest  the  enemy  had  ever  attempted, 
began  on  March  21st,  and  the  place  that  Hindenburg 
selected  for  the  drive  was  Picardy,  the  valley  of  the 
Somme,  the  ancient  cockpit  of  Europe.  On  that  day  the 
German  hordes,  scores  upon  scores  of  divisions,  hurled 
themselves  against  the  British  line  between  Arras  and 
Noyon. 

Before  that  tremendous  weight  of  manpower,  the 
Allied  line  was  forced  to  give  and  one  of  the  holding 
British  armies,  the  Fifth,  gave  ground  on  the  right  flank, 
and  with  its  left  as  a  hinge,  swung  back  like  a  gate,  open- 
ing the  way  for  the  Germans  toward  Paris. 

There  have  been  many  descriptions  of  the  fierce  fight- 
ing put  up  by  the  French  and  British  to  stem  the  German 
advance,  but  the  most  interesting  one  that  ever  came  to 
my  notice,  came  from  one  of  the  few  American  soldiers 
that  participated  in  the  defence.  Two  weeks  after  the 
opening  of  the  battle  and  at  a  time  when  the  German  ad- 
vance had  been  stopped,  I  came  upon  this  American  in 
a  United  States  Military  Hospital  at  Dijon. 

An  interne  led  me  to  the  bedside  of  Jimmy  Brady,  a 
former  jockey  from  the  Pimlico  turf  in  Baltimore,  and 
now  a  proud  wearer  of  Uncle  Sam's  khaki.     In  his  own 


200  "AND  THF.Y  THOUGHT 

quaint  way,  Jimmy  told  me  the  story  of  what  a  little 
handful  of  Americans  did  in  the  great  battle  in  Picardy. 
Jimmy  knew.     Jimmy  had  been  there. 

"Lad,"  he  said,  "I'm  telling  you  it  was  a  real  jam. 
I  learned  one  hell  of  a  headful  in  the  last  ten  days  that 
I'll  not  be  forgetting  in  the  next  ten  years.  I've  got 
new  ideas  about  how  long  this  war  is  goin'  to  last.  Of 
course,  we're  going  to  lick  the  Boches  before  it  ends, 
but  I've  sorter  given  up  the  picture  I  had  of  myself  march- 
ing up  Fifth  Avenue  in  a  victory  parade  on  this  coming 
Fourth  of  July.     I'll  say  it  can't  be  done  in  that  time. 

"Our  outfit  from  old  engineers,  and  believe  me 

there's  none  better,  have  been  working  up  in  the  Somme 
country  for  the  last  two  months.  We  were  billeted  at 
Brie  and  most  of  our  work  had  been  throwing  bridges 
across  the  Canal  du  Nord  about  three  miles  south  of 
Peronne.  I'm  telling  you  the  Somme  ain't  a  river.  It's 
a  swamp,  and  they  just  hardly  squeeze  enough  water 
outer  it  to  make  a  canal  which  takes  the  place  of  a  river. 

"We  was  working  under  the  British.  Their  old  bridges 
over  the  canal  were  wooden  affairs  and  most  of  them 
had  signs  on  them  reading,  'This  bridge  won't  hold  a 
tank,'  and  that  bridge  wouldn't  bear  trotting  horses,  and 
so  on.  Some  of  'em  we  tore  down  must  have  been  put 
in  for  scenery  purposes  only.  We  were  slamming  up 
some  husky  looking  steel  structures  like  you  see  in  the 
States,  and  believe  me  it  makes  me  sick  to  think  that  we 
had  to  blow  'em  all  up  again  before  the  Boches  got  to  'em. 

"I  see  by  the  papers  that  the  battle  began  on  the  21st, 
but  I've  got  no  more  idea  about  the  date  of  it  than  the 
King  of  Honolulu.  They  say  it's  been  on  only  about  ten 
days,  but  I  couldn't  swear  it  hadn't  been  on  since  New 
Year's  Eve.  It  sure  seemed  a  long  time.  As  I  told  you, 
we  were  working  just  south  of  Peronne  on  the  main  road 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  201 

between  St.  Quentin  and  Amiens.  She  started  on  a  foggy- 
morning  and  for  two  days  the  music  kept  getting  closer. 
On  the  first  day,  all  traffic  was  frontward,  men,  guns,  and 
camions  going  up  towards  the  lines,  and  then  the  tide 
began  to  flow  back. 

"Ambulances  and  camions,  full  of  poor  wounded  dev- 
ils, filled  the  road,  and  then  came  labour  battalions  of 
chattering  Chinks,  Egyptians,  and  Fiji  Islanders  and 
God  knows  what.  None  of  these  birds  were  lingering, 
because  the  enemy  was  sprinkling  the  roads  with  shells 
and  sorter  keeping  their  marching  spirits  up.  Orders 
came  for  us  to  ditch  our  packs  and  equipment  all  except 
spades,  rifles,  belts  and  canteens,  and  we  set  off  toward 
the  rear. 

"Do  you  mind  your  map  of  the  Somme?  Well,  we 
pulls  up  at  Chaulnes  for  a  breath.  It  was  a  big  depot 
and  dump  town — aeroplanes  and  everything  piled  up  in 
it.  We  were  ordered  onto  demolition  work,  being  as  we 
was  still  classed  as  non-combatants.  I  don't  know  how 
many  billions  of  dollars'  worth  of  stuff  we  blew  up  and 
destroyed,  but  it  seemed  to  me  there  was  no  end  of  it. 
Fritz  kept  coming  all  the  time  and  they  hiked  us  on  to 
Aubercourt  and  then  to  Dormant,  and  each  place  we 
stopped  and  dug  trenches,  and  then  they  shoots  us  into 
camions  and  rushes  us  north  to  a  town  not  far  out  of 
Amiens. 

"With  about  forty  men,  we  marched  down  the  road, 
this  time  as  non-combatants  no  longer.  We  stopped  just 
east  of  the  village  of  Marcelcave  and  dug  a  line  of 
trenches  across  the  road.  We  had  twenty  machine  guns 
and  almost  as  many  different  kinds  of  ammunition  as 
there  was  different  nationalities  in  our  trench.  Our  po- 
sition was  the  fifth  line  of  defence,  we  was  told,  but  the 


202  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

guns  kept  getting  closer  and  a  lot  of  that  long  range  stuff 
was  giving  us  hell.  Near  me  there  was  a  squad  of  my  men, 
one  Chink,  three  Canadians,  and  we  two  Dublin  fusileers. 

"Then  we  begin  to  see  our  own  guns,  that  is,  British 
guns,  beginning  to  blow  hell  out  of  this  here  village  of 
Marcelcave  right  in  front  of  us.  It  made  me  wild  to  see 
the  artillery  making  a  mistake  like  that,  so  I  says  to  one  of 
these  here  Dublin  fusileers: 

"  'Whatinell's  'matter  wid  dose  guns  firing  on  our  own 
men  up  there  in  the  village?  If  this  is  the  fifth  line,  then 
that  must  be  our  fourth  line  in  the  village  ?' 

"  'Lad,'  says  the  Dublin  fusileer  to  me,  'I  don't  want 
to  discourage  you  for  the  life  of  me,  but  this  only  used 
to  be  the  fifth  line.  We  are  in  the  first  line  now  and  it's  up 
to  you  and  me  and  the  Chink  and  the  rest  of  us  to  keep  the 
Fritzes  out  of  Amiens.  At  this  moment  we  are  all  that's 
between.' 

"We  started  to  the  machine  guns  and  began  pouring 
it  in  on  'em.  The  minute  some  of  'em  would  start  out  of 
the  town  we  would  wither  them.  Holy  mother,  but  what 
a  beautiful  murder  it  was! 

"I  didn't  know  then,  and  don't  know  yet,  what  has 
become  of  all  the  rest  of  our  officers  and  men,  but  I  sorter 
felt  like  every  shot  I  sent  over  was  paying  'em  back 
for  some  of  their  dirty  work.  We  kept  handing  it  to 
'em  hot.  You  oughter  seen  that  Chink  talking  Mon- 
golian to  a  machine  gun,  and,  believe  me,  he  sure  made 
it  understand  him.  I'm  here  to  say  that  when  a  Chink 
fights,  he's  a  fighting  son-of-a-gun  and  don't  let  any- 
body kid  you  different. 

"Well,  our  little  mob  held  'em  off  till  dark  and  then 
British  Tommies  piled  in  and  relieved  us.  We  needed 
it  because  we  hadn't  had  a  bite  in  seventy  hours  and  I 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  203 

had  been  lying  in  the  mud  and  water  for  twice  that  time. 
Just  before  relief  comes  on,  two  skulking  figures  comes 
over  the  top.  I  was  thinking  that  maybe  these  was 
Hindus  or  Eskimos  coming  to  join  our  little  interna- 
tional party  and  we  shouts  out  to  'em  and  asks  'em  where 
they  hails  from.  Both  of  'em  yelled  back,  'Kamerad,' 
and  then  I  knew  that  we'd  not  only  held  the  fort,  but 
had  captured  two  prisoners  even  if  they  was  deserters. 

"I  marched  'em  back  that  night  to  the  next  town  and 
took  'em  into  a  grocery  store,  where  there  was  a  lot  of 
Tommies  helping  themselves  to  the  first  meal  in  days. 
While  we  were  eating  bread  and  cheese  and  sardines 
and  also  feeding  me  two  prisoners,  we  talks  to  them 
and  finds  out  that,  as  far  as  they  are  concerned,  the 
Kaiser  will  never  get  their  vote  again. 

"One  Tommy  says  to  one  of  my  prisoners :  'Kaiser  no 
good — pas  bon,  ain't  it?'  and  the  prisoner  said,  'Yah,' 
and  I  shoved  my  elbow  into  his  ribs  and  right  quick  he 
said,  'Nein.'  Then  the  Tommy  said :  'Hindenburg 
dirty  rotter,  nacy  pa?'  and  the  Fritz  said,  'Yah.  Nein,' 
and  then  looked  at  me  and  said  'Yah'  again.  They  was 
not  bad  prisoners  and  I  marched  'em  twenty  miles  that 
night,  just  the  three  of  us — two  of  them  in  front  and 
me  in  back  with  the  rifle  over  me  arm. 

"And  the  joke  of  it  was  that  both  of  them  could 
have  taken  the  gun  and  killed  me  any  minute  for  all  I 
could  have  done." 

"How  do  you  figure  that,  Corporal?"  I  asked. 

For  reply,  Jimmy  Brady  drew  from  beneath  the 
blankets  a  pair  of  knotted  hands  with  fingers  and  thumbs 
stiffened  and  bent  in  and  obviously  impossible  to  use  on 
a  trigger.  Brady  is  not  in  the  hospital  for  wounds. 
Four  days  and  nights  in  water  and  mud  in  the  battle  of 


204  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

battles  had  twisted  and  shrunken  him  with  rheumatism. 
But  he  is  one  rheumatic  who  helped  to  save  Amiens. 

Upon  the  heels  of  the  German  successes  in  Picardy, 
developments  followed  fast.  Principal  among  these, 
was  the  materialisation  of  a  unified  command  of  all 
the  armies  of  the  Allies.  General  Ferdinand  Foch 
was  selected  and  placed  in  supreme  command  of  every 
fighting  man  under  the  Allied  flags. 

One  of  the  events  that  led  up  to  this  long  delayed 
action,  was  the  unprecedented  action  of  General  Pershing, 
when  he  turned  over  the  command  of  all  the  American 
forces  in  France  to  General  Foch.  He  did  this  with 
the  words : 

"I  come  to  say  to  you  that  the  American  people  would 
hold  it  a  great  honour  for  our  troops  were  they  engaged 
in  the  present  battle.  I  ask  it  of  you  in  my  name  and 
in  that  of  the  American  people. 

"There  is  at  this  moment  no  other  question  than  that 
of  fighting.  Infantry,  artillery,  aviation — all  that  we 
have  are  yours  to  dispose  of  as  you  will.  Others  are 
coming  which  are  as  numerous  as  will  be  necessary. 
I  have  come  to  say  to  you  that  the  American  people 
would  be  proud  to  be  engaged  in  the  greatest  battle  in 
history." 

The  action  met  with  the  unqualified  endorsement  of 
every  officer  and  man  in  the  American  forces.  From 
that  minute  on,  the  American  slogan  in  France  was 
"Let's  go,"  and  every  regiment  began  to  hope  that  it 
would  be  among  the  American  organisations  selected 
to  do  battle  with  the  German  in  Picardy.  Secretary  of 
War  Baker,  then  in  France,  expressed  his  pleasure  over 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  205 

General    Pershing's   unselfish   offer   with   the    following 
public  statement  on  Mar.  30th : 

"I  am  delighted  with  the  prompt  and  effective  action 
of  General  Pershing  in  placing  all  American  troops  at 
the  disposal  of  the  Allies  in  the  present  situation.  His 
action  will  meet  with  hearty  approval  in  the  United 
States,  where  the  people  desire  their  Expeditionary- 
Force  to  be  of  the  utmost  service  to  the  common  cause. 

"I  have  visited  practically  all  the  American  troops  in 
France,  some  of  them  quite  recently,  and  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  observe  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  officers 
and  men  receive  the  announcement  that  they  may  be 
used  in  the  present  conflict.  Regiments  to  which  the 
announcement  was  made,  broke  spontaneously  into 
cheers." 

Particularly  were  there  cheers  when  the  news  spread 
through  the  ranks  of  the  First  United  States  division, 
then  on  duty  on  the  line  in  front  of  Toul,  that  it  had 
been  the  first  American  division  chosen  to  go  into 
Picardy.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  make  arrangements 
to  go  with  them. 

I  rode  out  from  old  positions  with  the  guns  and 
boarded  the  troop  train  which  took  our  battery  by  de- 
vious routes  to  changes  of  scenery,  gratifying  both  to 
vision  and  spirit.  We  lived  in  our  cars  on  tinned  meat 
and  hard  bread,  washed  down  with  swallows  of  vin 
ordinaire,  hurriedly  purchased  at  station  burettes.  The 
horses  rode  well. 

Officers  and  men,  none  of  us  cared  for  train  schedule 
simply  because  none  of  us  knew  where  we  were  going, 
and  little  time  was  wasted  in  conjecture.  Soldierly 
curiosity  was  satisfied  with  the  knowledge  that  we  were 


206  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

c  i  our  way,  and  with  this  satisfaction,  the  hours  passed 
easily.  In  fact,  the  blackjack  game  in  the  officers'  com- 
partment had  reached  the  point  where  the  battery  com- 
mander had  garnered  almost  all  of  the  French  paper 
money  in  sight,  when  our  train  passed  slowly  through 
the  environs  of  Paris. 

Other  American  troop  trains  had  preceded  us,  because 
where  the  railroad  embankment  ran  close  and  parallel 
to  the  street  of  some  nameless  Faubourg,  our  appearance 
was  met  with  cheers  and  cries  from  a  welcoming  regi- 
ment of  Paris  street  gamins,  who  trotted  in  the  street 
beside  the  slow  moving  troop  train  and  shouted  and 
threw  their  hats  and  wooden  shoes  in  the  air.  Sous 
and  fifty  centime  pieces  and  franc  pieces  showered  from 
the  side  doors  of  the  horses'  cars  as  American  soldiers, 
with  typical  disregard  for  the  value  of  money,  pitched 
coin  after  coin  to  the  scrambling  mob  of  children.  At 
least  a  hundred  francs  must  have  been  cast  out  upon 
those  happy,  romping  waves  of  childish  faces  and  up- 
stretched  dirty  hands. 

"A  soldier  would  give  his  shirt  away,"  said  a  platoon 
commander,  leaning  out  of  the  window  and  watching  the 
spectacle,  and  surreptitiously  pitching  a  few  coins  him- 
self. "Hope  we  get  out  of  this  place  before  the  men 
pitch  out  a  gun  or  a  horse  to  that  bunch.  Happy  little 
devils,  aren't  they?  It's  great  to  think  we  are  on  our 
way  up  to  meet  their  daddies." 

Unnumbered  hours  more  passed  merrily  in  the  troop 
train  before  we  were  shunted  into  the  siding  of  a 
little  town.  Work  of  unloading  was  started  and  com- 
pleted within  an  hour.  Guns  and  wagons  were  unloaded 
on  the  quay,  while  the  animals  were  removed  from  the 
cars  on  movable  runways  or  ramps.  As  each  gun  or 
wagon  reached  the  ground,   its  drivers  hitched  in  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  207 

horses  and  moved  it  away.  Five  minutes  later  we  rode 
out  of  the  yards  and  down  the  main  street  of  the  town. 

Broad  steel  tires  on  the  carriages  of  the  heavies 
bumped  and  rumbled  over  the  clean  cobbles  and  the 
horses  pranced  spryly  to  get  the  kinks  out  of  their  legs, 
long  fatigued  from  vibrations  of  the  train.  Women,  old 
and  young,  lined  the  curbs,  smiling  and  throwing  kisses, 
waving  handkerchiefs  and  aprons  and  begging  for  sou- 
venirs. If  every  request  for  a  button  had  been  com- 
plied with,  our  battery  would  have  reached  the  front 
with  a  shocking  shortage  of  safety  pins. 

Darkness  came  on  and  with  it  a  fine  rain,  as  we  cleared 
the  town  and  halted  on  a  level  plain  between  soft  fields 
of  tender  new  wheat,  which  the  horses  sensed  and  snorted 
to  get  at.  In  twenty  minutes,  Mess  Sergeant  Kelly, 
from  his  high  altar  on  the  rolling  kitchen,  announced 
that  the  last  of  hot  coffee  had  been  dispensed.  Some- 
where up  ahead  in  the  darkness,  battery  bugle  notes  con- 
veyed orders  to  prepare  to  mount.  With  the  rattle  of 
equipment  and  the  application  of  endearing  epithets, 
which  horses  unfortunately  don't  understand,  we  moved 
off  at  the  sound  of  "forward." 

Off  on  our  left,  a  noiseless  passenger  train  slid  silently 
across  the  rim  of  the  valley,  blue  dimmed  lights  in  its 
coach  windows  glowing  like  a  row  of  wet  sulphur 
matches.  Far  off  in  the  north,  flutters  of  white  light 
flushed  the  night  sky  and  an  occasional  grumbling  of 
the  distant  guns  gave  us  our  first  impression  of  the 
battle  of  battles.  Every  man  in  our  battery  tingled  with 
the  thrill.  This  was  riding  frontward  with  the  guns — 
this  was  rolling  and  rumbling  on  through  the  night  up 
toward  the  glare  and  glamour  of  war.  I  was  riding 
beside  the  captain  at  the  head  of  the  column.  He  broke 
silence. 


208  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"It  seems  like  a  far  cry  from  Honolulu  with  the 
moon  playing  through  the  palm  trees  on  the  beach,"  he 
said  quizzically,  "to  this  place  and  these  scenes  and 
events  to-night,  but  a  little  thing  like  a  flip  of  coin  de- 
cided it  for  me,  and  I'm  blessing  that  coin  to-night. 

"A  year  ago  January,  before  we  came  into  the  war, 
I  was  stationed  at  San  Antonio.  Another  officer  friend 
of  mine  was  stationed  there  and  one  day  he  received 
orders  to  report  for  duty  at  Honolulu.  He  had  a  girl 
in  San  Antonio  and  didn't  want  to  leave  her  and  he 
knew  I  didn't  have  a  girl  and  didn't  give  a  damn  where 
I  went,  or  was  sent,  so  long  as  it  was  with  the  army. 
He  put  up  the  proposition  of  mutual  exchange  being 
permitted  under  regulations. 

"He  wanted  to  take  my  place  in  San  Antonio  and 
give  me  his  assignment  in  Honolulu,  which  I  must  say 
looked  mighty  good  in  those  days  to  anybody  who  was 
tired  of  Texas.  I  didn't  think  then  we'd  ever  come  to 
war  and  besides  it  didn't  make  much  difference  to  me 
one  way  or  the  other  where  I  went.  But  instead  of  ac- 
cepting the  proposition  right  off  the  reel,  I  told  Jim 
we'd  flip  a  coin  to  decide. 

"If  it  came  tails,  he  would  go  to  Honolulu.  If  it 
came  heads,  I  would  go  to  Honolulu.  He  flipped.  Tails 
won.  I'm  in  France  and  poor  Jim  is  out  there  in 
Honolulu  tending  the  Ukelele  crop  with  prospects  of 
having  to  stay  there  for  some  time.  Poor  devil,  I  got 
a  letter  from  him  last  week. 

"Do  you  know,  man  knows  no  keener  joy  in  the  world 
than  that  which  I  have  to-night.  Here  I  am  in  France 
at  the  head  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  men  and  horses 
and  the  guns  and  we're  rolling  up  front  to  kick  a  dent  in 
history.   The  poor  unfortunate  that  ain't  in  this  fight  has 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  209 

almost  got  license  to  shoot  himself.  Life  knows  no 
keener  joy  than  this." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  our  captain,  but  his  words 
expressed  not  only  the  feeling  of  our  battery,  but  our 
whole  regiment,  from  the  humblest  wagon  driver  up  to 
the  colonel  who,  by  the  way,  has  just  made  himself  most 
unpopular  with  the  regiment  by  being  promoted  to  a 
Brigadier  Generalship.  The  colonel  is  passing  upward 
to  a  higher  command  and  the  regiment  is  sore  on  losing 
him.  One  of  his  humblest  critics  has  characterised  the 
event  as  the  "first  rough  trick  the  old  man  ever  pulled." 

Midnight  passed  and  we  were  still  wheeling  our  way 
through  sleeping  villages,  consulting  maps  under  rays  of 
flashlights,  gathering  directions  some  of  the  time  from 
mile  posts  and  wall  signs,  and  at  other  times  gaining 
knowledge  of  roads  and  turns  and  hills  from  sleepy 
heads  in  curl  wrappers  that  protruded  from  bedroom 
chambers  and  were  over-generous  in  advice. 

The  animals  were  tired.  Rain  soaked  the  cigarettes 
and  made  them  draw  badly.  Above  was  drizzle  and 
below  was  mud.  There  were  a  few  grumbles,  but  no 
man  in  our  column  would  have  traded  places  with  a 
brother  back  home  even  if  offered  a  farm  to  boot. 

It  was  after  three  in  the  morning  when  we  parked 
the  guns  in  front  of  a  chateau,  brought  forward  some 
lagging  combat  wagons  and  discovered  the  rolling 
kitchen  had  gone  astray.  In  another  hour  the  animals 
had  been  unhitched  but  not  unharnessed,  fed  and 
watered  in  darkness  and  the  men,  in  utter  weariness, 
prepared  to  lie  down  and  sleep  anywhere.  At  this  junc- 
ture, word  was  passed  through  the  sections  that  the 
battery  would  get  ready  to  move  immediately.  Orders 
were  to  clear  the  village  by  six  o'clock.     Neither  men 


210  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


nor  horses  were  rested,  but  we  moved  out  on  time  and 
breakfasted  on  the  road. 

The  way  seemed  long,  the  roads  bad  and  the  guns 
heavy.  But  we  were  passing  through  an  Eden  of  beauty 
— green  fields  and  rolling  hills  crested  by  ancient 
chateaux.  At  times,  the  road  wound  down  through 
hillside  orchards,  white  and  pink  with  apple  blooms. 
Fatigue  was  heavy  on  man  and  beast,  but  I  heard  one 
walking  cannoneer  singing,  "When  It's  Apple  Blossom- 
time  in  Normandie."  Another  rider  in  the  column  re- 
called the  time  when  his  father  used  to  give  him  ten 
cents  for  standing  on  the  bottom  of  an  upturned  tin  basin 
and  reciting,  "Over  the  mountains  winding  down,  horse 
and  foot  into  Frederickstown." 

"The  jar  of  these  guns  as  they  grind  over  the  gravel 
is  enough  to  grind  the  heart  out  of  you,"  said  a  sweat- 
ing cannoneer  who  was  pressing  a  helping  shoulder  to 
one  of  the  heavies  as  we  negotiated  a  steep  hill. 

"What  in  hell  you  kicking  about,"  said  the  man  oppo- 
site. "Suppose  you  was  travelling  with  one  of  them 
guns  the  Germans  are  using  on  Paris — I  mean  that  old 
John  J.  Longdistance.  You'd  know  what  heavy  guns  are 
then.  They  say  that  the  gun's  so  big  and  takes  so  many 
horses  to  haul  it,  that  the  man  who  drives  the  lead  pair 
has  never  spent  the  night  in  the  same  town  with  the 
fellow  who  rides  wheel  swing." 

A  young  reserve  lieutenant  with  mind  intensely  on 
his  work,  combined  for  my  benefit  his  impressions  of 
scenery  with  a  lesson  in  artillery  location.  His  char- 
acterisation of  the  landscape  was  as  technical  as  it  was 
Yinpoetical. 

"A  great  howitzer  country,"  was  the  tenor  of  his 
remarks.  "Look  at  the  bottom  of  that  slide.  Fine  posi- 
tion   for   one   fifty-five.     Take    that   gully   over   there. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  211 

That's  a  beaut  of  a  place.     No  use  talking.     Great  how- 
itzer country." 

During  the  afternoon,  a  veterinarian  turned  over  two 
horses  to  a  French  peasant.  One  was  exhausted  and 
unable  to  proceed,  and  the  other  suffered  a  bad  hoof, 
which  would  require  weeks  for  healing.  News  that  both 
animals  were  not  going  to  be  shot  was  received  with 
joy  by  two  men  who  had  ridden  them.  I  saw  them 
patting  the  disabled  mounts  affectionately  on  the  neck 
and  heard  one  of  them  say, 

'  'Salright,  old  timer — 'salright.  Frenchy  here  is  go- 
ing to  take  care  of  you  all  right.  Uncle  Sam's  paying 
the  bill  and  I  am  coming  back  and  get  you  soon's  we 
give  Fritzie  his  bumps." 

An  hour  later,  a  young  cannoneer  gave  in  to  fatigue 
and  ignored  orders  to  the  extent  of  reclining  on  gun 
trail  and  falling  asleep.  A  rut  in  the  road  made  a  stiff 
jolt,  he  rolled  off  and  one  ponderous  wheel  of  the  gun 
carriage  passed  over  him.  One  leg,  one  arm  and  two 
ribs  were  broken  and  his  feet  crushed,  was  the  doctor's 
verdict  as  the  victim  was  carried  away  in  an  ambulance. 

"He'll  get  better  all  right,"  said  the  medico,  "but  he's 
finished  his  bit  in  the  army." 

The  column  halted  for  lunch  outside  of  a  small  town 
and  I  climbed  on  foot  to  the  hilltop  castle  where 
mediaeval  and  modern  were  mixed  in  mute  melange.  A 
drawbridge  crossed  a  long  dry  moat  to  cracked  walls  of 
rock  covered  with  ivy.  For  all  its  well  preserved  signs 
of  artistic  ruin,  it  was  occupied  and  well  fitted  within. 
From  the  topmost  parapet  of  one  rickety  looking  tower, 
a  wire  stretched  out  through  the  air  to  an  old,  ruined 
mill  which  was  surmounted  by  a  modern  wind  motor, 
the  tail  of   which   incongruously  advertised  the   words 


212  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"Ideal  power,"  with  the  typical  conspicuity  of  American 
salesmanship. 

Near  the  base  of  the  old  mill  was  another  jumble  of 
moss-covered  rocks,  now  used  as  a  summer  house,  but 
open  on  all  sides.  At  a  table  in  the  centre  of  this  open 
structure,  sat  a  blond  haired  young  American  soldier 
with  black  receivers  clamped  to  either  ear.  I  approached 
and  watched  him  jotting  down  words  on  a  paper  pad 
before  him.  After  several  minutes  of  intent  silence,  he 
removed  the  harness  from  his  head  and  told  me  that 
he  belonged  to  the  wireless  outfit  with  the  artillery  and 
this  station  had  been  in  operation  since  the  day  before. 

"Seems  so  peaceful  here  with  the  sun  streaming  down 
over  these  old  walls,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  hear  out  of  the  air?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  we  pick  up  a  lot  of  junk,"  he  replied,  "I'm  wait- 
ing for  the  German  communique  now.  Here's  some 
Spanish  stuff  I  just  picked  up  and  some  more  junk  in 
French.  The  English  stations  haven't  started  this  after- 
noon. A  few  minutes  ago  I  heard  a  German  aeroplane 
signalling  by  wireless  to  a  German  battery  and  directing 
its  fire.  I  could  tell  every  time  the  gun  was  ordered  to 
fire  and  every  time  the  aviator  said  the  shot  was  short  or 
over.  It's  kinder  funny  to  sit  back  here  in  quiet  and 
listen  in  the  war,  isn't  it?"  I  agreed  it  was  weird  and 
it  was. 

In  darkness  again  at  the  end  of  a  hard  day  on  the 
road,  we  parked  the  guns  that  night  in  a  little  village 
which  was  headquarters  for  our  regiment  and  where  I 
spent  the  night  writing  by  an  old  oil  lamp  in  the  Mayor's 
office.  A  former  Chicago  bellhop  who  spoke  better  Ital- 
ian than  English  and  naturally  should,  was  sleeping  on 
a  blanket  roll  on  the  floor  near  me.  On  the  walls  of 
the  room  were  posted  numerous  flag-decked  proclama- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  213 

tions,  some  now  yellow  with  the  time  that  had  passed 
over  them  since  their  issue  back  in  1914.  They  pertained 
to  the  mobilisation  of  the  men  of  the  village,  men  whose 
names  remain  now  only  as  a  memory. 

But  in  their  place  was  the  new  khaki-clad  Chicago 
bellhop  snoring  there  on  the  floor  and  several  thousand 
more  as  sturdy  and  ready  as  he,  all  billeted  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  that  room.  They  were  here  to  finish 
the  fight  begun  by  those  village  peasants  who  had 
marched  away  four  years  before  when  the  Mayor  of 
the  town  posted  that  bulletin.  These  Americans  stood 
ready  to  go  down  to  honoured  graves  beside  them. 

Our  division  was  under  the  French  high  command 
and  was  buried  in  the  midst  of  the  mighty  preparations 
then  on  foot.  Our  ranks  were  full,  our  numbers  strong, 
our  morale  high.  Every  officer  and  man  in  the  organi- 
sation had  the  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  dashing  French 
comrades-in-arms  and  hard  righting  British  brothers 
were  on  them.  Our  inspiration  was  in  the  belief  that 
the  attention  of  the  Allied  nations  of  the  world  and 
more  particularly  the  hope  and  pride  of  our  own  people 
across  the  sea,  was  centred  upon  us.  With  that  sacred 
feeling,  the  first  division  stood  resolute  to  meet  the  test. 

Some  of  the  disquieting  news  then  prevalent  in  the 
nervous  civilian  areas  back  of  the  lines,  reached  us,  but 
its  effect,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  was  nil.  Our  officers 
and  men  were  as  unconcerned  about  the  reports  of  enemy 
successes  as  though  we  were  children  in  the  nursery  of 
a  burning  house  and  the  neighbourhood  was  ringing  with 
fire  alarms.  German  advances  before  Amiens,  enemy 
rushes  gaining  gory  ground  in  Flanders,  carried  no 
shock  to  the  high  resolve  that  existed  in  the  Allied  re- 
serves of  which  we  were  a  part. 

Our  army  knew  nothing  but  confidence.     If  there  was 


214  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

other  than  optimism  to  be  derived  from  the  current 
events,  then  our  army  was  inclined  to  consider  such  a 
result  as  gratifying,  because  it  could  be  calculated  to 
create  a  greater  measure  of  speed  and  assistance  from 
the  slowly  functioning  powers  in  America.  The  reason- 
ing was  that  any  possible  pessimism  would  hurry  to  the 
wheel  every  American  shoulder  that  had  failed  to  take 
up  its  individual  war  burden  under  the  wave  of  optimism. 
The  army  had  another  reason  for  its  optimism.  Our 
officers  knew  something  about  the  dark  days  that  had 
preceded  the  first  battle  at  the  Marne.  They  were  fa- 
miliar with  the  gloomy  outlook  in  19 14  that  had  led  to 
the  hurried  removal  of  the  French  government  from 
Paris  to  Bordeaux.  Our  men  recalled  how  the  enemy 
was  then  overrunning  Belgium,  how  the  old  British 
"Contemptibles"  were  in  retreat,  and  how  the  German 
was  within  twenty  miles  of  the  French  capital. 

In  that  crisis  had  come  the  message  by  Foch  and  the 
brilliant  stroke  with  which  he  backed  it  up.  What 
followed  was  the  tumble  and  collapse  of  the  straddling 
German  effort  and  the  forced  transformation  in  the 
enemy's  plans  from  a  war  of  six-  weeks  to  a  war  of  four 
years. 

Our  army  knew  the  man  who  turned  the  trick  at  the 
Marne.  We  knew  that  we  were  under  his  command, 
and  not  the  slightest  doubt  existed  but  that  it  was  now 
our  destiny  to  take  part  in  another  play  of  the  cards 
which  would  call  and  cash  the  German  hand.  Our 
forces  in  the  coming  engagements  were  staking  their 
lives,  to  a  man,  on  Foch's  ace  in  the  hole. 

That  was  the  deadly  earnestness  of  our  army's  con- 
fidence in  Foch.  The  capture  of  a  hill  top  in  Picardy 
or  the  loss  of  a  village  in  Flanders  had  no  effect  upon 
that  confidence.     It   found  reinforcement  in  the  belief 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  215 

that  since  March  21st,  America  had  gained  a  newer  and 
keener  appreciation  of  her  part  in  the  war. 

Our  army  began  to  feel  that  the  American  people, 
more  than  three  thousand  miles  away  from  the  battle 
fronts,  would  have  a  better  understanding  of  the  intense 
meaning  that  had  been  already  conveyed  in  General 
Pershing's  words,  "Confidence  is  needed  but  overconfi- 
dence  is  dangerous."  In  other  words,  our  soldiers  in 
the  field  began  to  feel  that  home  tendencies  that  under- 
rated the  enemy's  strength  and  underestimated  the  effort 
necessary  to  overcome  him,  had  been  corrected.  The 
army  had  long  felt  that  such  tendencies  had  made  good 
material  for  Billy  Sunday's  sermons  and  spread-eagle 
speeches,  but  they  hadn't  loaded  guns  or  placed  men  in 
the  front  line. 

We  felt  that  this  crisis  had  brought  to  America  a  bet- 
ter realisation  of  the  fact  that  Germany  had  not  been 
beaten  and  that  she  was  yet  to  be  beaten  and  that  Amer- 
ica's share  in  the  administration  of  that  beating  would 
have  to  be  greater  and  more  determined  than  had  here- 
tofore been  deemed  necessary.  It  was  the  hope  of  the 
army  that  this  realisation  would  reach  the  people  with 
a  shock.  Shocks  were  known  to  make  realisations  less 
easy  to  forget.  Forgetfulness  from  then  on  might  have 
meant  Allied  defeat. 

Lagging  memories  found  no  billet  in  the  personnel  of 
that  First  Division.  Its  records,  registering  five  hun- 
dred casualties,  kept  in  mind  the  fact  that  the  division 
had  seen  service  on  the  line  and  still  had  scores  to  settle 
with  the  enemy. 

Its  officers  and  men,  with  but  few  exceptions,  had 
undergone  their  baptism  in  German  fire  and  had  found 
the  experience  not  distasteful.  The  division  had  esprit 
which  made  the  members  of  every  regiment  and  brigade 


216  "AND  THF.Y  THOUGHT 

in  it  vie  with  the  members  of  any  other  regiment  and 
brigade.  If  you  had  asked  any  enlisted  man  in  the  divi- 
sion, he  would  have  told  you  that  his  company,  battery, 
regiment  or  brigade  "had  it  all  over  the  rest  of  them." 
That  was  the  feeling  that  our  division  brought  with 
them  when  we  marched  into  Picardy  to  meet  the  German 
push.  That  was  the  spirit  that  dominated  officers  and 
men  during  the  ten  days  that  we  spent  in  manceuvres  and 
preparations  in  that  concentration  area  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  ancient  town  of  Chaumont-en-Vexin  in  the  de- 
partment of  the  Oise.  It  was  the  feeling  that  made  us 
anxious  and  eager  to  move  on  up  to  the  actual  front. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  217 


CHAPTER  XI 

UNDER  FIRE 

On  the  day  before  our  departure  for  the  front  from 
the  concentration  area  in  Picardy,  every  officer  in  the 
division,  and  they  numbered  almost  a  thousand,  was 
summoned  to  the  temporary  divisional  headquarters, 
where  General  Pershing  addressed  to  them  remarks 
which  have  since  become  known  as  the  commander's 
"farewell  to  the  First."  We  had  passed  out  from  his 
command  and  from  then  on  our  orders  were  to  come 
from  the  commander  of  the  French  army  to  which  the 
division  was  to  be  attached. 

General  Pershing  stood  on  a  mound  at  the  rear  of  a 
beautiful  chateau  of  Norman  architecture,  the  Chateau 
du  Jard,  located  on  the  edge  of  the  town  of  Chaumont- 
en-Vexin.  The  officers  ranged  themselves  in  informal 
rows  on  the  grass.  Birds  were  singing  somewhere  above 
in  the  dense,  green  foliage,  and  sunlight  was  filtering 
through  the  leaves  of  the  giant  trees. 

The  American  commander  spoke  of  the  traditions 
which  every  American  soldier  should  remember  in  the 
coming  trials,.  He  referred  to  the  opportunity  then 
present  for  us,  whose  fathers  established  liberty  in  the 
New  World,  now  to  assist  the  Old  World  in  throwing  off 
its  yoke  of  tyranny.  Throughout  this  touching  fare- 
well to  the  men  he  had  trained — to  his  men  then  leaving 
for  scenes  from  which  some  of  them  would  never  return 
— the  commander's  voice  never  betrayed  the  depth  of 
feeling  behind  it. 

That  night  we  made  final  arrangements  for  the  mor- 


218  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

row's  move.  I  travelled  with  the  artillery  where  or- 
ders were  received  for  the  reduction  of  all  packs  to  the 
lightest  possible  as  all  men  would  be  dismounted  and  the 
baggage  wagons  would  be  reserved  for  food,  ammuni- 
tion and  officers'  luggage  only.  Officers'  packs,  by  the 
same  order,  had  to  shrink  from  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  to  twenty. 

There  were  many  misgivings  that  night  as  owners 
were  forced  to  discard  cherished  belongings.  Cumber- 
some camp  paraphernalia,  rubber  bathtubs,  pneumatic 
mattresses,  extra  blankets,  socks,  sweaters,  etc.,  all  parted 
company  from  erstwhile  owners.  That  order  caused 
many  a  heart-break  and  the  abandonment  of  thousands 
of  dollars'  worth  of  personal  equipment  in  our  area. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  some  of  the  village  maidens  were 
surprised  at  the  remarkable  generosity  of  officers  and 
men  who  presented  them  with  expensive  toilet  sets. 
Marie  at  the  village  estaminct  received  five  of  them  all 
fitted  in  neat  leather  rolls  and  inscribed  with  as  many 
different  sets  of  initials.  The  old  men  of  the  town 
gloried  in  the  sweaters,  woollen  socks  and  underwear. 

There  was  no  chance  to  fudge  on  the  slim  baggage 
order.  An  officer,  bound  by  duty,  weighed  each  officer's 
kit  as  it  reached  the  baggage  wagons  and  those  tipping 
the  scales  at  more  than  the  prescribed  twenty  pounds, 
were  thrown  out  entirely.  I  happened  to  be  watching 
the  loading  when  it  came  turn  for  the  regimental  band 
to  stow  away  its  encased  instruments  in  one  wagon.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  musicians  at  the  front  are 
stretcher  bearers.  The  baggage  judge  lifted  the  case 
containing  the  bass  horn. 

"No  horn  in  the  world  ever  weighed  that  much,"  he 
said.  "Open  it  up,"  was  the  terse  command.  The  case 
was  opened  and  the  base  horn  pulled  out.     The  baggage 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  219 

officer  began  operations  on  the  funnel.  I  watched  him 
remove  from  the  horn's  interior  two  spare  blankets,  four 
pairs  of  socks,  an  extra  pair  of  pants  and  a  carton  of 
cigarettes.  He  then  inserted  his  arm  up  to  the  shoulder 
in  the  instrument's  innards  and  brought  forth  two  apples, 
a  small  tin  of  blackberry  jam  and  an  egg  wrapped  in  an 
undershirt. 

The  man  who  played  the  "umpah  umpah"  in  the  band 
was  heartbroken.  The  clarinet  player,  who  had  watched 
the  operation  and  whose  case  followed  for  inspection, 
saved  the  inspector  trouble  by  removing  an  easily  hidden 
chain  of  sausage.  I  noticed  one  musician  who  was  ob- 
serving the  ruthless  pillage  but,  strangely,  his  countenance 
was  the  opposite  of  the  others.  He  was  actually  smil- 
ing.    I  inquired  the  cause  of  his  mirth. 

"When  we  packed  up,  those  guys  with  the  big  hollow 
instruments  all  had  the  laugh  on  me,"  he  said.  "Now 
I've  got  it  on  them.     I  play  the  piccolo." 

All  the  mounted  men  under  the  rank  of  battery  com- 
manders were  dismounted  in  order  to  save  the  horses 
for  any  possibilities  in  the  war  of  movement.  A  dis- 
mounted artilleryman  carrying  a  pack  and  also  armed 
with  a  rifle,  is  a  most  disconsolate  subject  to  view  just 
prior  to  setting  out  for  a  long  tramp.  In  his  opinion, 
he  has  been  reduced  too  near  the  status  of  the  despised 
doughboy. 

It  really  doesn't  seem  like  artillery  unless  one  has  a 
horse  to  ride  and  a  saddle  to  strap  one's  pack  on.  In 
the  lineup  before  we  started,  I  saw  two  of  these  gunners 
standing  by  weighted  down  with  their  cumbersome,  un- 
accustomed packs.  They  were  backed  against  a  stone 
wall  and  were  easing  their  burdens  by  resting  the  packs 
on  the  stone  ledge.  Another  one  similarly  burdened 
passed  and,  in  a  most  serious  tone,  inquired : 


220  'AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"Say,  would  either  of  you  fellows  like  to  buy  another 
blanket  roll?"  The  reply  of  two  dejected  gunners 
would  bar  this  story-  from  publication. 

We  were  on  the  march  early  in  the  morning,  but  not 
without  some  initial  confusion  by  reason  of  the  inevitable 
higher  orders  which  always  come  at  the  last  minute  to 
change  programmes.  On  parallel  roads  through  that  zone 
of  unmarred  beauty  which  the  Xormans  knew,  our  col- 
umns swung  along  the  dusty  highroads. 

There  were  many  who  held  that  America  would  not 
be  thoroughly  awake  to  the  full  meaning  of  her  partic- 
ipation in  the  war  until  the  day  there  came  back  from 
the  battlefields  a  long  list  of  casualties — a  division  wiped 
out  or  decimated.  Many  had  heard  the  opinions  ex- 
pressed in  France  and  many  firmly  believed  that  nothing 
short  of  such  a  shock  would  arouse  our  nation  to  the 
exertion  of  the  power  and  speed  necessary  to  save  the 
Allied  cause  from  defeat. 

On  this  march,  that  thought  recurred  to  some  and 
perhaps  to  many  who  refrained  soberly  from  placing  it 
in  words.  I  knew  several  in  the  organisation  who  felt 
that  we  were  on  our  way  to  that  sacrifice.  I  can  not  esti- 
mate in  how  many  minds  the  thought  became  tangible, 
but  among  several  whom  I  heard  seriously  discussing  the 
matter,  I  found  a  perfect  willingness  on  their  part  to 
meet  the  unknown — to  march  on  to  the  sacrifice  with 
the  feeling  that  if  the  loss  of  their  life  would  help  bring 
about  a  greater  prosecution  of  the  war  by  our  country, 
then  they  would  not  have  died  in  vain. 

If  this  was  the  underlying  spirit,  it  had  no  effect 
whatever  upon  outward  appearances  which  could  hardly 
be  better  described  than  with  Cliff  Raymond's  lilting 
words:  ''There  are  roses  in  their  rifles  just  the  same/'  If 
this  move  was  on  to  the  sacrifice — if  death  awaited  at 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  221 

the  end  of  the  road,  then  those  men  were  marching 
toward  it  with  a  song. 

It  takes  a  hard  march  to  test  the  morale  of  soldiers. 
When  the  feet  are  road-sore,  when  the  legs  ache  from 
the  endless  pounding  of  hobnails  on  hard  macadam, 
when  the  pack  straps  cut  and  burn  to  the  shoulder  blades, 
and  the  tin  hat  weighs  down  like  a  crown  of  thorns, 
then  keep  your  ear  open  for  a  jest  and  if  your  hearing 
is  rewarded,  you  will  know  that  you  march  with  men. 

Many  times  that  first  day,  those  jests  came  to  enliven 
dejected  spirits  and  put  smiles  on  sweat-rinsed  faces.  I 
recall  our  battery  as  it  negotiated  the  steep  hills.  When 
the  eight  horses  attached  to  the  gun  carriages  were 
struggling  to  pull  them  up  the  incline,  a  certain  subaltern 
with  a  voice  slow,  but  damnably  insistent,  would  sing 
out,  "Cannoneers,  to  the  wheels."  This  reiterated  com- 
mand at  every  grade  forced  aching  shoulders  already 
weary  with  their  own  burdens  to  strain  behind  the  heavy 
carriages  and  ease  the  pull  on  the  animals. 

Once  on  a  down  grade,  our  way  crossed  the 
tracks  of  a  narrow  gauge  railroad.  Not  far  from  the 
crossing  could  be  seen  a  dinky  engine  puffing  and  snorting 
furiously  in  terrific  effort  to  move  up  the  hill  its  at- 
tached train  of  loaded  ammunition  cars.  The  engine 
was  having  a  hard  fight  when  some  light-hearted  weary 
one  in  our  column  gave  voice  to  something  which  brought 
up  the  smile. 

"Cannoneers,  to  the  wheel !"  was  the  shout  and  even 
the  dignified  subaltern  whose  pet  command  was  the  butt 
of  the  exclamation,  joined  in  the  wave  of  laughs  that 
went  down  the  line. 

An  imposing  chateau  of  the  second  empire  now  pre- 
sided over  by  an  American  heiress,  the  wife  of  a  French 
officer,    was    regimental    headquarters    that    night.     Its 


222  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

barns  and  outbuildings  were  the  cleanest  in  France  ac- 
cording to  individuals  who  had  slept  in  so  many  barns 
that  they  feel  qualified  to  judge. 

"Painfully  sanitary,"  said  a  young  lieutenant,  who 
remarked  that  the  tile  floor  might  make  a  stable  smell 
sweeter  but  it  hardly  offered  the  slumbering  possibilities 
of  a  straw  shakedown.  While  the  men  arranged  their 
blankets  in  those  quarters,  the  horses  grazed  and  rolled 
in  green  paddocks  fenced  with  white  painted  rails.  The 
cooks  got  busy  with  the  evening  meal  and  the  men  off 
duty  started  exploring  the  two  nearby  villages. 

For  the  American  soldier,  financial  deals  were  always 
a  part  of  these  explorations.  It  was  seldom  more  than 
an  hour  after  his  arrival  in  a  populated  village  before 
the  stock  market  and  board  of  trade  were  in  full  opera- 
tion. These  mobile  establishments  usually  were  set  up 
in  the  village  square  if  headquarters  did  not  happen  to 
be  located  too  close.  There  were  plenty  to  play  the 
roles  of  bulls  and  bears;  there  was  much  bidding  and 
shouting  of  quotations. 

The  dealings  were  not  in  bushels  of  wheat  or  shares 
in  oils  or  rails.  Delicacies  were  the  bartered  commodi- 
ties and  of  these,  eggs  were  the  strongest.  The  German 
intelligence  service  could  have  found  no  surer  way  to 
trace  the  perigrinations  of  American  troops  about  France, 
than  to  follow  up  the  string  of  eggless  villages  they  left 
behind  them. 

As  soon  as  billets  were  located,  those  without  extra 
duty  began  the  ^gg  canvass  of  the  town.  There  was 
success  for  those  who  made  the  earliest  start  and  struck 
the  section  with  the  most  prolific  hens.  Eggs  were 
bought  at  various  prices  before  news  of  the  American 
arrivals  had  caused  peasants  to  set  up  a  new  scale  of 
charges.     The  usual  late  starter  and  the  victim  of  ar- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  223 

rangements  was  the  officer's  striker  who  lost  valuable 
time  by  having  to  take  care  of  his  officer's  luggage  and 
get  the  latter  established  in  billets.  It  was  then  his  duty 
to  procure  eggs  for  the  officer's  mess. 

By  that  time,  all  natural  egg  sources  had  been  obliter- 
ated and  the  only  available  supply  was  cornered  by  the 
soldiers'  board  of  trade.  The  desired  breakfast  food 
could  be  obtained  in  that  place  only.  It  was  the  last 
and  only  resort  of  the  striker,  who  is  euphoniously  known 
as  a  dog  robber.  In  the  board  of  trade  he  would  find 
soldiers  with  helmets  full  of  eggs  which  could  be  bought 
at  anywhere  from  two  to  three  times  their  original  price. 
It  was  only  by  the  payment  of  such  prices  that  the  officer 
was  able  to  get  anything  that  could  possibly  leave  a 
trace  of  yellow  on  his  chin.  If  there  was  a  surplus,  the 
soldiers  themselves  had  ample  belt  room  to  accommo- 
date it. 

In  one  village  tavern,  I  saw  one  soldier  eat  fourteen 
eggs  which  he  ordered  Madame  to  fry  in  succession.  I 
can  believe  it  because  I  saw  it.  Madame  saw  it  also, 
but  I  feel  that  she  did  not  believe  her  eyes.  A  captain 
of  the  Judge  Advocate's  office  also  witnessed  the  gastro- 
nomic feat. 

"Every  one  of  those  eggs  was  bought  and  paid  for," 
he  said.  "Our  department  handles  claims  for  all  stolen 
or  destroyed  property  and  we  have  yet  to  receive  the 
first  claim  from  this  town.  Of  course  every  one  knows 
that  a  hungry  man  will  steal  to  eat  and  there  are  those 
who  hold  that  theft  for  the  purpose  of  satisfying  de- 
mands of  the  stomach  is  not  theft.  But  our  records 
show  that  the  American  soldier  in  France  is  ready  to, 
willing  to,  and  capable  of  buying  what  he  needs  out- 
side of  his  ration  allowance. 

"We  have  some  instances  of   stealing,   but   most  of 


224  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

them  are  trivial.  Recently,  we  took  from  the  pay  of 
one  whole  battalion  the  cost  of  thirty-one  cheeses  which 
were  taken  from  a  railroad  restaurant  counter.  The 
facts  were  that  some  of  our  troops  en  route  were  hungry 
and  the  train  was  stopping  only  for  five  minutes  and 
the  woman  behind  the  counter  didn't  have  time  to  even 
take,  much  less  change,  the  money  offered,  so  the  men 
grabbed  the  cheeses  and  ran  out  just  in  time  to  board  the 
train  as  it  was  moving  off. 

"There  was  one  case,  though,  in  which  Uncle  Sam 
didn't  have  the  heart  to  charge  any  one.  He  paid  the 
bill  himself  and  maybe  if  you  could  send  the  story  back 
home,  the  citizens  who  paid  it  would  get  a  laugh  worth 
the  money.  It  happened  during  a  recent  cold  spell  when 
some  of  our  troops  were  coming  from  seaboard  to  the 
interior.  They  travelled  in  semi-opened  horse  cars  and 
it  was  cold,  damn  cold. 

"One  of  the  trains  stopped  in  front  of  a  small  rail- 
road station  and  six  soldiers  with  cold  hands  and  feet 
jumped  from  the  car  and  entered  the  waiting  room,  in 
the  centre  of  which  was  a  large  square  coal  stove  with 
red  hot  sides.  One  man  stood  on  another  one's  shoulders 
and  disjointed  the  stove  pipe.  At  the  same  time,  two 
others  placed  poles  under  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  lifted 
it  off  the  floor  and  walked  out  of  the  room  with  it. 

"They  placed  it  in  the  horse  car,  stuck  the  pipe  out 
of  one  door  and  were  warm  for  the  remainder  of  the 
trip.  It  was  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  that  little 
village  that  anybody  had  ever  stolen  a  red  hot  stove. 
The  French  government,  owning  the  railroads,  made 
claim  against  us  for  four  hundred  francs  for  the  stove 
and  eleven  francs'  worth  of  coal  in  it.  Uncle  Sam  paid 
the  bill  and  was  glad  to  do  it. 

"I  know  of  only  one  case  to  beat  that  one  and  that 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  225 

concerned  an  infantryman  who  stole  a  hive  full  of  honey 
and  took  the  bees  along  with  it.  The  medical  depart- 
ment handled  one  aspect  of  the  case  and  the  provost 
marshal  the  other.  The  bees  meted  out  some  of  the 
punishment  and  we  stung  his  pay  for  the  costs." 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  men  on  the  move 
found  it  most  difficult  to  steal  and  that  was  sleep.  So 
at  least  it  seemed  the  next  morning  when  we  swung 
into  the  road  at  daybreak  and  continued  our  march  into 
the  north.  Much  speculation  went  the  rounds  as  to  our 
destination.  The  much  debated  question  was  as  to 
whether  our  forces  would  be  incorporated  with  Foch's 
reserve  armies  and  held  in  readiness  for  a  possible 
counter  offensive,  or  whether  we  should  be  placed  in  one 
of  the  line  armies  and  assigned  to  holding  a  position  in 
the  path  of  the  German  push.  But  all  this  conjecture 
resulted  in  nothing  more  than  passing  the  time.  Our 
way  led  over  byroads  and  side  lanes  which  the  French 
master  of  circulation  had  laid  down  for  us. 

Behind  an  active  front,  the  French  sanctified  their 
main  roads  and  reserved  them  for  the  use  of  fast  motor 
traffic  and  the  rushing  up  of  supplies  or  reserves  in  cases 
of  necessity.  Thousands  of  poilus  too  old  for  combat 
duty  did  the  repair  work  on  these  main  arteries.  All 
minor  and  slow  moving  traffic  was  side-tracked  to  keep 
the  main  line  clear.  At  times  we  were  forced  to  cross 
the  main  highroads  and  then  we  encountered  the  forward 
and  backward  stream  of  traffic  to  and  from  the  front. 
At  one  of  those  intersections,  I  sought  the  grass  bank  at 
the  side  of  the  road  for  rest.  Two  interesting  actors  in 
this  great  drama  were  there  before  me.  One  was  an 
American  soldier  wearing  a  blue  brassard  with  the  white 
letters  M.  P.    He  was  a  military  policeman  on  duty  as  a 


226  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

road  marker  whose  function  is  to  regulate  traffic  and 
prevent  congestion. 

Beside  him  was  seated  a  peculiar  looking  person  whose 
knee  length  skirts  of  khaki  exposed  legs  encased  in  wrap 
puttees.  A  motor  coat  of  yellow  leather  and  the  visored 
cap  of  a  British  Tommy  completed  the  costume.  The 
hair  showing  beneath  the  crown  of  the  cap  was  rather 
long  and  straight,  but  betrayed  traces  of  having  been 
recently  close  cropped.  For  all  her  masculine  appear- 
ance, she  was  French  and  the  young  road  marker  was 
lavishing  upon  her  everything  he  had  gleaned  in  a 
Freshman  year  of  French  in  a  Spokane  high  school. 

I  offered  my  cigarette  case  and  was  surprised  when 
the  girl  refrained.  That  surprise  increased  when  I  saw 
her  extract  from  a  leather  case  of  her  own  a  full  fledged 
black  cigar  which  she  proceeded  to  light  and  smoke  with 
gusto.  When  I  expressed  my  greater  surprise,  she  in- 
creased it  by  shrugging  her  shoulders  prettily,  plunging 
one  gauntleted  hand  into  a  side  pocket  and  producing 
a  pipe  with  a  pouch  of  tobacco. 

There  was  nothing  dainty  about  that  pipe.  It  had 
no  delicate  amber  stem  nor  circlet  of  filigree  gold. 
There  was  no  meerschaum  ornamentation.  It  was  just 
a  good  old  Jimmy  pipe  with  a  full-grown  cake  in  the 
black  burnt  bowl,  and  a  well  bitten,  hard  rubber  mouth 
piece.  It  looked  like  one  of  those  that  father  used  to 
consent  to  have  boiled  once  a  year,  after  mother  had 
charged  it  with  rotting  the  lace  curtains.  If  war  makes 
men  of  peace-time  citizens,  then 

But  she  was  a  girl  and  her  name  was  Yvonne.  The 
red-winged  letter  on  her  coat  lapel  placed  her  in  the  auto- 
mobile service  and  the  motor  ambulance  stationed  at  the 
road  side  explained  her  special  branch  of  work.  She 
inquired  the  meaning  of  my  correspondent's  insignia  and 


FIRST  OF   THE    OREAT    FRANCO-AMERICAN'    COUNTER-OFFENSIVE    AT   CHAT]    u 
THIERRY.       THE    FRENCH    BABY   TANKS,    KNOWN    AS    "CHARS    I)'\SSAUTS," 
ENTERING   THE    WOOD  OF   VII.I.ERS   COTTORET,   SOUTHWEST   OF   SOISSONS 


YANKS    AND    P0ILTJ8    VIEWING    THE    CITY    OF   CHATEA1  -THIERRl 
IN  T11K    BUDDIE    OP   JULY,   THE    YANKS  TtTBNED  THE   TIDE 
OF  BATTLE    AGAINST  THE    IHXS 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  227 


then  explained  that  she  had  drawn  pastelles  for  a  Paris 
publication  before  the  war,  but  had  been  transporting 
blesses  since.  The  French  lesson  proceeded  and  Spo- 
kane Steve  and  I  learned  from  her  that  the  longest  word 
in  the  French  language  is  spelled  "Anticonstitutionelle- 
ment."  I  expressed  the  hope  that  some  day  both  of  us 
would  be  able  to  pronounce  it. 

On  the  girl's  right  wrist  was  a  silver  chain  bracelet 
with  identification  disk.  In  response  to  our  interested 
gaze,  she  exhibited  it  to  us,  and  upon  her  own  volition, 
informed  us  that  she  was  a  descendant  of  the  same  fam- 
ily as  Jeanne  d'Arc.  Steve  heard  and  winked  to  me  with 
a  remark  that  they  couldn't  pull  any  stuff  like  that  on  any- 
body from  Spokane,  because  he  had  never  heard  that 
that  Maid  of  Orleans  had  been  married.  Yvonne  must 
have  understood  the  last  word  because  she  explained 
forthwith  that  she  had  not  claimed  direct  descendence 
from  the  famous  Jeanne,  but  from  the  same  family. 
Steve  looked  her  in  the  eye  and  said,  "Jay  compraw." 

She  explained  the  meaning  of  the  small  gold  and  silver 
medals  suspended  from  the  bracelet.  She  detached  two 
and  presented  them  to  us.  One  of  them  bore  in  relief 
the  image  of  a  man  in  flowing  robes  carrying  a  child  on 
his  shoulder,  and  the  reverse  depicted  a  tourist  driving 
a  motor  through  hilly  country. 

"That  is  St.  Christophe,"  said  Yvonne.  "He  is  the 
patron  saint  of  travellers.  His  medal  is  good  luck 
against  accidents  on  the  road.  Here  is  one  of  St.  Elias. 
He  is  the  new  patron  saint  of  the  aviators.  You  re- 
member. Didn't  he  go  to  heaven  in  a  fiery  chariot,  or 
fly  up  on  golden  wings  or  something  like  that?  Any- 
how, all  the  aviators  wear  one  of  his  medals." 

St.  Christophe  was  attached  to  my  identification  disk. 
Steve  declared   infantrymen   travelled   too   slowly  ever 


228  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

to  have  anything  happen  to  them  and  that  he  was  going 
to  give  his  to  a  friend  who  drove  a  truck.  When  I  fell 
in  line  with  the  next  passing  battery  and  moved  down  the 
road,  Spokane  Steve  and  the  Yvonne  of  the  family  of 
Jeanne  had  launched  into  a  discussion  of  prize  fighting 
and  chewing  tobacco. 

In  billets  that  night,  in  a  village  not  far  from  Beauvais, 
the  singing  contest  for  the  prize  of  fifty  dollars  offered 
by  the  battalion  commander  Major  Robert  R.  McCor- 
mick  was  resumed  with  intense  rivalry  between  the 
tenors  and  basses  of  batteries  A  and  B.  A  "B"  Battery 
man  was  croaking  Annie  Laurie,  when  an  "A"  Battery 
booster  in  the  audience  remarked  audibly, 

"Good  Lord,  I'd  rather  hear  first  call."  First  call  is 
the  bugle  note  that  disturbs  sleep  and  starts  the  men  on 
the  next  day's  work. 

A  worried  lieutenant  found  me  in  the  crowd  around 
the  rolling  kitchen  and  inquired : 

"Do  you  know  whether  there's  a  provost  guard  on 
that  inn  down  the  road?"  I  couldn't  inform  him,  but 
inquired  the  reason  for  his  alarm. 

"I've  got  a  hunch  that  the  prune  juice  is  running  knee 
deep  to-night,"  he  replied,  "and  I  don't  want  any  of 
my  section  trying  to  march  to-morrow  with  swelled 
heads." 

"Prune  juice"  is  not  slang.  It  is  a  veritable  expres- 
sion and  anybody  who  thinks  that  the  favourite  of  the 
boarding  house  table  cannot  produce  a  fermented  article 
that  is  tres  fort  in  the  way  of  a  throat  burner,  is  greatly 
mistaken.  In  France  the  fermented  juice  of  the  prune 
is  called  "water  of  life,"  but  it  carries  a  "dead  to  the 
world"  kick.     The  simple  prune,  which  the  army  used 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  229 

to  call  "native  son"  by  reason  of  its  California  origin, 
now  ranks  with  its  most  inebriating  sisters  of  the  vine. 

The  flow  of  can  dc  vie  must  have  been  dammed  at  the 
inn.  On  the  road  the  next  day,  I  saw  a  mule  driver 
wearing  a  sixteen  candle  power  black  eye.  When  I  in- 
quired the  source  of  the  lamp  shade,  he  replied: 

"This  is  my  first  wound  in  the  war  of  movement.  Me 
and  the  cop  had  an  offensive  down  in  that  town  that's 
spelt  like  Sissors  but  you  say  it  some  other  way."  I 
knew  he  was  thinking  of  Gisors. 

The  third  and  fourth  day's  march  brought  us  into 
regions  nearer  the  front,  where  the  movement  of  refu- 
gees on  the  roads  seemed  greater,  where  the  roll  of  the 
guns  came  constantly  from  the  north,  where  enemy  mo- 
tors droned  through  the  air  on  missions  of  frightfulness. 

There  was  a  major  in  our  regiment  whose  knowledge 
of  French  was  confined  to  the  single  affirmative  exclama- 
tion, "Ah,  oui."  He  worked  this  expression  constantly 
in  the  French  conversation  with  a  refugee  woman  from 
the  invaded  districts.  She  with  her  children  occupied 
one  room  in  the  cottage.  When  the  major  started  to 
leave,  two  days  later,  the  refugee  woman  addressed  him 
in  a  reproving  tone  and  with  tears.  He  could  only  re- 
ply with  sympathetic  "Ah,  oui's,"  which  seemed  to  make 
her  all  the  more  frantic. 

An  interpreter  straightened  matters  out  by  informing 
the  major  that  the  woman  wanted  to  know  why  he  was 
leaving  without  getting  her  furniture. 

"What  furniture?"  replied  the  puzzled  major. 

"Why,  she  says,"  said  the  interpreter,  "that  you 
promised  her  you  would  send  three  army  trucks  to  her 
house  back  of  the  German  lines  and  bring  all  of  her  house- 
hold goods  to  this  side  of  the  line.  She  says  that  she  ex- 
plained all  of  it  to  you  and  you  said,  'Ah,  oui.'  " 


230  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

The  major  has  since  abandoned  the  "ah,  oui"  habit. 

At  one  o'clock  one  morning,  orders  reached  the  bat- 
talion for  reconnaissance  detail ;  each  battery  to  be  ready 
to  take  road  by  daylight.  We  were  off  at  break  of  day 
in  motor  trucks  with  a  reel  cart  of  telephone  wire 
hitched  on  behind.  Thirty  minutes  later  we  rumbled 
along  roads  under  range  of  German  field  pieces  and 
arrived  in  a  village  designated  as  battalion  headquarters 
to  find  that  we  were  first  to  reach  the  sector  allotted  for 
American  occupation.  The  name  of  the  town  was 
Serevilliers. 

Our  ears  did  not  delude  us  about  the  activity  of  the 
sector,  but  I  found  that  officers  and  men  of  the  detail 
were  inclined  to  accept  the  heavy  shelling  in  a  non- 
committal manner  until  a  French  interpreter  attached 
to  us  remarked  that  artillery  action  in  the  sector  was  as 
intense  as  any  he  had  experienced  at  Verdun. 

If  the  ever  present  crash  of  shells  reminded  us  that 
we  were  opposite  the  peak  of  the  German  push,  there 
was  plenty  of  work  to  engage  minds  that  might  other- 
wise have  paid  too  much  attention  to  the  dangers  of  their 
location.  A  chalk  cellar  with  a  vaulted  ceiling  and 
ventilators,  unfortunately  opening  on  the  enemy  side  of 
the  upper  structure,  was  selected  as  the  battalion  com- 
mand post.  The  men  went  to  work  immediately  to 
remove  piles  of  dirty  billeting  straw  under  which  was 
found  glass,  china,  silverware  and  family  portraits,  all 
of  which  had  been  hurriedly  buried  by  the  owners  of  the 
house  not  two  weeks  before. 

While  linemen  planned  communications,  and  battery 
officers  surveyed  gun  positions,  the  battalion  commander 
and  two  orienting  officers  went  forward  to  the  frontal 
zone  to  get  the  first  look  at  our  future  targets  and  estab- 
lish observation  posts  from  which  our  firing  could  be 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  231 

directed.  I  accompanied  the  small  party,  which  was  led 
by  a  French  officer  familiar  with  the  sector.  It  was  upon 
his  advice  that  we  left  the  roads  and  took  cuts  across 
fields,  avoiding  the  path  and  road  intersections  and  tak- 
ing advantage  of  any  shelter  offered  by  the  ground. 

Virgin  fields  on  our  way  bore  the  enormous  craters 
left  by  the  explosion  of  poorly  directed  German  shells  of 
heavy  calibre.  Orders  were  to  throw  ourselves  face 
downward  upon  the  ground  upon  the  sound  of  each  ap- 
proaching missile.  There  is  no  text  book  logic  on  judg- 
ing from  the  sound  of  a  shell  whether  it  has  your  address 
written  on  it,  but  it  is  surprising  how  quick  that  educa- 
tion may  be  obtained  by  experience.  Several  hours  of 
walking  and  dropping  to  the  ground  resulted  in  an  at- 
tuning of  the  ears  which  made  it  possible  to  judge  ap- 
proximately whether  that  oncoming,  whining,  unseen 
thing  from  above  would  land  dangerously  near  or 
ineffectively  far  from  us.  The  knowledge  was  common 
to  all  of  us  and  all  of  our  ears  were  keenly  tuned  for  the 
sounds.  Time  after  time  the  collective  judgment  and 
consequent  prostration  of  the  entire  party  was  proven 
well  timed  by  the  arrival  of  a  shell  uncomfortably  close. 

We  gained  a  wooded  hillside  that  bristled  with  busy 
French  seventy-fives,  which  the  German  tried  in  vain 
to  locate  with  his  howitzer  fire.  We  mounted  a  forest 
plateau,  in  the  centre  of  which  a  beautiful  white  chateau 
still  held  out  against  the  enemy's  best  efforts  to  locate  it 
with  his  guns.  One  shell  addressed  in  this  special  direc- 
tion fortunately  announced  its  coming  with  such  unmis- 
takable vehemence  that  our  party  all  landed  in  the  same 
shell  hole  at  once. 

Every  head  was  down  when  the  explosion  came. 
Branches  and  pieces  of  tree  trunk  were  whirled  upward, 
and  the  air  became  populated  with  deadly  bumble  bees 


232  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  humming  birds,  for  such  is  the  sound  that  the  shell 
splinters  make.  When  I  essayed  our  shell  hole  after- 
ward, I  couldn't  fathom  how  five  of  us  had  managed  to 
accommodate  ourselves  in  it,  but  in  the  rush  of  necessity, 
no  difficulty  had  been  found. 

Passing  from  the  woods  forward,  one  by  one,  over 
a  bald  field,  we  skirted  a  village  that  was  being  heavily 
shelled,  and  reached  a  trench  on  the  side  of  the  hill  in 
direct  view  of  the  German  positions.  The  enemy  par- 
tially occupied  the  ruined  village  of  Cantigny  not  eight 
hundred  yards  away,  but  our  glasses  were  unable  to 
pick  up  the  trace  of  a  single  person  in  the  debris.  French 
shells,  arriving  endlessly  in  the  village,  shot  geysers  of 
dust  and  wreckage  skyward.  It  was  from  this  village, 
several  days  later,  that  our  infantry  patrols  brought  in 
several  prisoners,  all  of  whom  were  suffering  from  shell 
shock.  But  our  men  in  the  village  opposite  underwent 
the  same  treatment  at  the  hands  of  the  German  artillery. 

It  was  true  of  this  sector  that  what  corresponded  to 
the  infantry  front  line  was  a  much  safer  place  to  be  in 
than  in  the  reserve  positions,  or  about  the  gun  pits  in 
villages  or  along  roads  in  our  back  area.  Front  line 
activity  was  something  of  minor  consideration,  as  both 
sides  seemed  to  have  greater  interests  at  other  points 
and,  in  addition  to  that,  the  men  of  both  sides  were  busy 
digging  trenches  and  shelters.  There  were  numerous 
machine  gun  posts  which  swept  with  lead  the  indeter- 
minate region  between  the  lines,  and  at  night,  patrols 
from  both  sides  explored  as  far  as  possible  the  holdings 
of  the  other  side. 

Returning  to  the  battalion  headquarters  that  night  by 
a  route  apparently  as  popular  to  German  artillery  as  was 
the  one  we  used  in  the  forenoon,  we  found  a  telephone 
switchboard  in  full  operation  in  the  sub-cellar,  and  mess 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  233 

headquarters  established  in  a  clean  kitchen  above  the 
ground.  Food  was  served  in  the  kitchen  and  we  noticed 
that  one  door  had  suffered  some  damage  which  had 
caused  it  to  be  boarded  up  and  that  the  plaster  ceiling  of 
the  room  was  full  of  fresh  holes  and  rents  in  a  dozen 
places.  At  every  shock  to  the  earth,  a  little  stream  of 
oats  would  come  through  the  holes  from  the  attic  above. 
These  falling  down  on  the  officer's  neck  in  the  midst  of 
a  meal,  would  have  no  effect  other  than  causing  him  to 
call  for  his  helmet  to  ward  off  the  cereal  rain. 

We  learned  more  about  the  sinister  meaning  of  that 
broken  door  and  the  ceiling  holes  when  it  became  neces- 
sary later  in  the  evening  to  move  mess  to  a  safer  loca- 
tion. The  kitchen  was  located  just  thirty  yards  back  of 
the  town  cross  roads  and  an  unhealthy  percentage  of 
German  shells  that  missed  the  intersection  caused  too 
much  interruption  in  our  cook's  work. 

We  found  that  the  mess  room  was  vacant  by  reason 
of  the  fact  that  it  had  become  too  unpleasant  for  French 
officers,  who  had  relinquished  it  the  day  before.  We 
followed  their  suite  and  were  not  surprised  when  an 
infantry  battalion  mess  followed  us  into  the  kitchen  and 
just  one  day  later,  to  the  hour,  followed  us  out  of  it. 

Lying  on  the  floor  in  that  chalk  cellar  that  night  and 
listening  to  the  pound  of  arriving  shells  on  nearby  cross 
roads  and  battery  positions,  we  estimated  how  long  it 
would  be  before  this  little  village  would  be  completely 
levelled  to  the  ground.  Already  gables  were  disappear- 
ing from  houses,  sturdy  chimneys  were  toppling  and 
stone  walls  were  showing  jagged  gaps.  One  whole  wall 
of  the  village  school  had  crumbled  before  one  blast,  so 
that  now  the  wooden  desks  and  benches  of  the  pupils  and 
their  books  and  papers  were  exposed  to  view  from  the 


234  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

street.  On  the  blackboard  was  a  penmanship  model 
which  read : 

"Let  no  day  pass  without  having  saved  something." 

An  officer  came  down  the  dark  stone  steps  into  the 
cellar,  kicked  off  his  boots  and  lay  down  on  some  blankets 
in  one  corner. 

"I  just  heard  some  shells  come  in  that  didn't  explode," 
I  remarked.  "Do  you  know  whether  they  were  gas  or 
duds?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  they  were  gas  or  not,"  he  said, 
"but  I  do  know  that  that  horse  out  in  the  yard  is  cer- 
tainly getting  ripe." 

The  defunct  animal  referred  to  occupied  an  uncovered 
grave  adjoining  our  ventilator.  Sleeping  in  a  gas  mask 
was  not  the  most  unpleasant  form  of  slumber. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  235 


CHAPTER  XII 

BEFORE  CANTIGNY 

It  is  strange  how  sleep  can  come  at  the  front  in  sun 
rounclings  not  unlike  the  interior  of  a  boiler  factory,  but 
it  does.  I  heard  of  no  man  who  slept  in  the  cellars  be* 
neath  the  ruins  of  Serevilliers  that  night  being  disturbed 
by  the  pounding  of  the  shells  and  the  jar  of  the  ground, 
both  of  which  were  ever  present  through  our  dormant 
senses.  Stranger  still  was  the  fact  that  at  midnight 
when  the  shelling  almost  ceased,  for  small  intervals, 
almost  every  sleeper  there  present  was  aroused  by  the 
sudden  silence.  When  the  shelling  was  resumed,  sleep 
returned. 

"When  I  get  back  on  the  farm  outside  of  Chicago," 
said  one  officer,  "I  don't  believe  I  will  be  able  to  sleep 
unless  I  get  somebody  to  stand  under  my  window  and 
shake  a  thunder  sheet  all  night." 

It  is  also  remarkable  how  the  tired  human,  under  such 
conditions,  can  turn  off  the  switch  on  an  energetic  imagi- 
nation and  resign  himself  completely  to  fate.  In  those 
cellars  that  night,  every  man  knew  that  one  direct  hit 
of  a  "two  ten"  German  shell  on  his  particular  cellar 
wall,  would  mean  taps  for  everybody  in  the  cave.  Such 
a  possibility  demands  consideration  in  the  slowest  mov- 
ing minds. 

Mentalities  and  morale  of  varying  calibre  cogitate  upon 
this  matter  at  varying  lengths,  but  I  doubt  in  the  end 
if  there  is  much  difference  in  the  conclusion  arrived  at. 
Such  reflections  produce  the  inevitable  decision  that 
if  one  particular  shell  is  coming  into   your  particular 


236  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

abode,  there  is  nothing  you  can  do  to  keep  it  out,  so 
"What  the  hell!"  You  might  just  as  well  go  to  sleep 
and  forget  it  because  if  it  gets  you,  you  most  probably 
will  never  know  anything  about  it  anyway.  I  believe 
such  is  the  philosophy  of  the  shelled. 

It  must  have  been  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
a  sputtering  motor  cycle  came  to  a  stop  in  the  shelter 
of  our  cellar  door  and  a  gas  guard  standing  there  ex- 
changed words  with  some  one.  It  ended  in  the  sound  of 
hobnails  on  the  stone  steps  as  the  despatch  rider  de- 
scended, lighting  his  way  with  the  yellow  shaft  from  an 
electric  pocket  lamp. 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  the  Major,  awakening  and  roll- 
ing over  on  his  side. 

"Just  come  from  regimental  headquarters,"  said  the 
messenger.  "I'm  carrying  orders  on  to  the  next  town. 
Adjutant  gave  me  this  letter  to  deliver  to  you,  sir.  The 
Adjutant's  compliments,  sir,  and  apologies  for  waking 
you,  but  he  said  the  mail  just  arrived  and  the  envelope 
looked  important  and  he  thought  you  might  like  to  get 
it  right  away." 

"Hmm,"  said  the  Major,  weighing  the  official  looking 
envelope  in  one  hand  and  observing  both  the  American 
stamps  in  one  corner  and  numerous  addresses  to  which 
the  missive  had  been  forwarded.  He  tore  off  one  end 
and  extracted  a  sheet  which  he  unfolded  and  read  while 
the  messenger  waited  at  his  request.  I  was  prepared  to 
hear  of  a  promotion  order  from  Washington  and  made 
ready  to  offer  congratulations.  The  Major  smiled  and 
tossed  the  paper  over  to  me,  at  the  same  time  reaching 
for  a  notebook  and  fountain  pen. 

"Hold  a  light  for  me,"  he  said  to  the  messenger  as  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  began  writing.  "This  is 
urgent  and  I  will  make  answer  now.     You  will  mail  it 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  237 

at  regimental  headquarters."  As  his  pen  scratched 
across  the  writing  pad,  I  read  the  letter  he  had  just  re- 
ceived. The  stationery  bore  the  heading  of  an  alumni 
association  of  a  well-known  eastern  university.  The 
contents  ran  as  follows: 

"Dear  Sir:  What  are  you  doing  for  your  country? 
What  are  you  doing  to  help  win  the  war?  While  our 
brave  boys  are  in  France  facing  the  Kaiser's  shell  and 
gas,  the  alumni  association  has  directed  me  as  secretary 
to  call  upon  all  the  old  boys  of  the  university  and  invite 
them  to  do  their  bit  for  Uncle  Sam's  fighting  men.  We 
ask  your  subscription  to  a  fund  which  we  are  raising  to 
send  cigarettes  to  young  students  of  the  university  who 
are  now  serving  with  the  colours  and  who  are  so  nobly 
maintaining  the  traditions  of  our  Alma  Mater.  Please 
fill  out  the  enclosed  blank,  stating  your  profession  and 
present  occupation.  Fraternally  yours, Secre- 
tary." 

The  Major  was  watching  me  with  a  smile  as  I  con- 
cluded reading. 

"Here's  my  answer,"  he  said,  reading  from  a  note- 
book leaf : 

"Your  letter  reached  me  to-night  in  a  warm  little 
village  in  France.  With  regard  to  my  present  profes- 
sion, will  inform  you  that  I  am  an  expert  in  ammuni- 
tion trafficking  and  am  at  present  occupied  in  exporting 
large  quantities  of  shells  to  Germany  over  the  air  route. 
Please  find  enclosed  check  for  fifty  francs  for  cigarettes 
for  youngsters  who,  as  you  say,  are  so  nobly  upholding 
the  sacred  traditions  of  our  school.  After  all,  we  old 
boys  should  do  something  to  help  along  the  cause.    Yours 


238  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

to  best  the  Kaiser.     ,  Major.     Field 

Artillery,  U.  S.  A.    On  front  in  France." 

"I  guess  that  ought  to  hold  them,"  said  the  Major 
as  he  folded  the  letter  and  addressed  an  envelope.  It 
rather  seemed  to  me  that  it  would  but  before  I  could 
finish  the  remark,  the  Major  was  back  asleep  in  his 
blankets. 

By  daylight,  I  explored  the  town,  noting  the  havoc 
wrought  by  the  shells  that  had  arrived  in  the  night.  I 
had  thought  in  seeing  refugees  moving  southward  along 
the  roads,  that  there  was  little  variety  of  articles  related 
to  human  existence  that  they  failed  to  carry  away  with 
them.  But  one  inspection  of  the  abandoned  abodes  of 
the  unfortunate  peasants  of  Serevilliers  was  enough  to 
convince  me  of  the  greater  variety  of  things  that  had 
to  be  left  behind.  Old  people  have  saving  habits  and 
the  French  peasants  pride  themselves  upon  never  throw- 
ing anything  away. 

The  cottage  rooms  were  littered  with  the  discarded 
clothing  of  all  ages,  discarded  but  saved.  Old  shoes  and 
dresses,  ceremonial  high  hats  and  frock  coats,  brought 
forth  only  for  weddings  or  funerals,  were  mixed  on  the 
floor  with  children's  toys,  prayer  books  and  broken  china. 
Shutters  and  doors  hung  aslant  by  single  hinges.  In  the 
village  estaminet  much  mud  had  been  tracked  in  by  ex- 
ploring feet  and  the  red  tiled  floor  was  littered  with  straw 
and  pewter  measuring  mugs,  dear  to  the  heart  of  the 
antiquary. 

The  ivory  balls  were  gone  from  the  dust  covered  bil- 
liard table,  but  the  six  American  soldiers  billeted  in  the 
cellar  beneath  had  overcome  this  discrepancy.  They  en- 
joyed after  dinner  billiards  just  the  same  with  three 
large  wooden  balls  from  a  croquet  court  in  the  garden. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  239 

A  croquet  ball  is  a  romping  substitute  when  it  hits  the 
green  cushions. 

That  afternoon  we  laid  more  wire  across  fields  to  the 
next  town  to  the  north.  Men  who  do  this  job  are,  in 
my  opinion,  the  most  daring  in  any  organisation  that 
depends  for  efficiency  upon  uninterrupted  telephone  com- 
munication. For  them,  there  is  no  shelter  when  a 
deluge  of  shells  pours  upon  a  field  across  which  their 
wire  is  laid.  Without  protection  of  any  kind  from  the 
flying  steel  splinters,  they  must  go  to  that  spot  to  repair 
the  cut  wires  and  restore  communication.  During  one 
of  these  shelling  spells,  I  reached  cover  of  the  road  side 
abri  and  prepared  to  await  clearer  weather. 

In  the  distance,  down  the  road,  appeared  a  scudding 
cloud  of  dust.  An  occasional  shell  dropping  close  on 
either  side  of  the  road  seemed  to  add  speed  to  the  appari- 
tion. As  it  drew  closer,  I  could  see  that  it  was  a  motor 
cycle  of  the  three  wheeled  bathtub  variety.  The  rider 
on  the  cycle  was  bending  close  over  his  handle  bars  and 
apparently  giving  her  all  there  was  in  her,  but  the  bulky 
figure  that  filled  to  overflowing  the  side  car,  rode  with 
his  head  well  back. 

At  every  irregularity  in  the  road,  the  bathtub  con- 
traption bounced  on  its  springs,  bow  and  stern  rising 
and  falling  like  a  small  ship  in  a  rough  sea.  Its  nearer 
approach  revealed  that  the  giant  torso  apparent  above  its 
rim  was  encased  in  a  double  breasted  khaki  garment 
which  might  have  marked  the  wearer  as  either  the  master 
of  a  four  in  hand  or  a  Mississippi  steamboat  of  the  ante 
bellum  type.  The  enormous  shoulders,  thus  draped, 
were  surmounted  by  a  huge  head,  which  by  reason  of  its 
rigid,  backward,  star-gazing  position  appeared  mostly  as 
chin  and  double  chin.  The  whole  was  topped  by  a  huge 
fat  cigar  which  sprouted  upward  from  the  elevated  chin 


240  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  at  times  gave  forth  clouds  like  the  forward  smoke- 
stack on  the  Robert  E.  Lee. 

I  was  trying  to  decide  in  my  mind  whether  the  ele- 
vated chin  posture  of  the  passenger  was  the  result  of 
pride,  bravado  or  a  boil  on  the  Adam's  apple,  when  the 
scudding  comet  reached  the  shelter  of  the  protecting  bank 
in  which  was  located  the  chiselled  dog  kennel  that  I 
occupied.  As  the  machine  came  to  halt,  the  superior 
chin  depressed  itself  ninety  degrees,  and  brought  into 
view  the  smiling  features  of  that  smile-making  gentle- 
man from  Paducah — Mr.  Irvin  S.  Cobb.  Machine, 
rider  and  passenger  stopped  for  breath  and  I  made  bold 
to  ask  the  intrepid  humourist  if  he  suffered  from  a  too 
keen  sense  of  smell  or  a  saw  edge  collar. 

"I  haven't  a  sensitive  nose,  a  saw  edge  collar  or  an 
inordinate  admiration  for  clouds,"  the  creator  of  Judge 
Priest  explained  with  reference  to  his  former  stiff- 
necked  pose,  "but  George  here,"  waving  to  the  driver, 
"took  a  sudden  inspiration  for  fast  movement.  The 
jolt  almost  took  my  head  off  and  the  wind  kept  me  from 
getting  it  back  into  position.  George  stuck  his  spurs 
into  this  here  flying  bootblack  stand  just  about  the  time 
something  landed  near  us  that  sounded  like  a  kitchen 
stove  half  loaded  with  window  weights  and  window 
panes.  I  think  George  made  a  record  for  this  road. 
I've  named  it  Buh-Looey  Boulevard." 

When  the  strafing  subsided  we  parted  and  I  reached 
the  next  deserted  town  without  incident.  It  was  almost 
the  vesper  hour  or  what  had  been  the  allotted  time  for 
that  rite  in  those  parts  when  I  entered  the  yard  of  the 
village  church,  located  in  an  exposed  position  at  a  cross 
roads  on  the  edge  of  the  town.  A  sudden  unmistakable 
whirr  sounded  above  and  I  threw  myself  on  the  ground 
just  as  the  high  velocity,   small   calibre   German   shell 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  241 

registered  a  direct  hit  on  the  side  of  the  nave  where  roof 
and  wall  met. 

While  steel  splinters  whistled  through  the  air,  an 
avalanche  of  slate  tiles  slid  down  the  slanting  surface  of 
the  roof,  and  fell  in  a  clattering  cascade  on  the  graves 
in  the  yard  below.  I  sought  speedy  shelter  in  the  lee  of 
a  tombstone.  Several  other  shells  had  struck  the  church- 
yard and  one  of  them  had  landed  on  the  final  resting  place 
of  the  family  of  Roger  La  Porte.  The  massive  marble 
slab  which  had  sealed  the  top  of  the  sunken  vault  had 
been  heaved  aside  and  one  wall  was  shattered,  leaving 
open  to  the  gaze  a  cross  section  view  of  eight  heavy 
caskets  lying  in  an  orderly  row. 

Nearby  were  fresh  mounds  of  yellow  earth,  sur- 
mounted by  now  unpainted  wooden  crosses  on  which 
were  inscribed  in  pencil  the  names  of  French  soldiers 
with  dates,  indicating  that  their  last  sacrifice  for  the 
tri-colour  of  la  Patria  had  been  made  ten  days  prior. 
In  the  soil  at  the  head  of  each  grave,  an  ordinary  beer 
bottle  had  been  planted  neck  downward,  and  through 
the  glass  one  could  see  the  paper  scroll  on  which  the 
name,  rank  and  record  of  the  dead  man  was  preserved. 
While  I  wondered  at  this  prosaic  method  of  identifica- 
tion, an  American  soldier  came  around  the  corner  of 
the  church,  lighted  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  on  an  old 
tombstone. 

"Stick  around  if  you  want  to  hear  something  good," 
he  said,  "That  is  if  that  last  shell  didn't  bust  the  organ. 
There's  a  French  poilu  who  has  come  up  here  every 
afternoon  at  five  o'clock  for  the  last  three  days  and  he 
plays  the  sweetest  music  on  the  organ.  It  certainly  is 
great.  Reminds  me  of  when  I  was  an  altar  boy,  back 
in  St.  Paul." 

We  waited  and  soon  there  came  from  the  rickety  old 


242  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

organ  loft  the  soothing  tones  of  an  organ.  The  ancient 
pipes,  sweetened  by  the  benedictions  of  ages,  poured 
forth  melody  to  the  touch  of  one  whose  playing  was 
simple,  but  of  the  soul.  We  sat  silently  among  the 
graves  as  the  rays  of  the  dying  sun  brought  to  life  new 
colouring  in  the  leaded  windows  of  stained  glass  behind 
which  a  soldier  of  France  swayed  at  the  ivory  keyboard 
and  with  heavenly  harmony  ignored  those  things  of 
death  and  destruction  that  might  arrive  through  the  air 
any  minute. 

My  companion  informed  me  that  the  poilu  at  the 
organ  wore  a  uniform  of  horizon  blue  which  marked 
him  as  casual  to  this  village,  whose  French  garrisons 
were  Moroccans  with  the  distinctive  khaki  worn  by  all 
French  colonials  in  service.  The  sign  of  the  golden 
crescent  on  their  collar  tabs  identified  them  as  children 
of  Mahomet  and  one  would  have  known  as  much  any- 
way upon  seeing  the  use  to  which  the  large  crucifix 
standing  in  what  was  the  market  place  had  been  put. 

So  as  not  t^  impede  traffic  through  the  place,  it  had 
become  necessary  to  elevate  the  field  telephone  wires 
from  the  ground  and  send  them  across  the  road  over- 
head. The  crucifix  in  the  centre  of  the  place  had  pre- 
sented itself  as  excellent  support  for  this  wire  and  the 
sons  of  the  prophet  had  utilised  it  with  no  intention  of 
disrespect.  The  uplifted  right  knee  of  the  figure  on  the 
cross  was  insulated  and  wired.  War,  the  moderniser 
and  mocker  of  Christ,  seemed  to  have  devised  new  pain 
for  the  Teacher  of  Peace.  The  crucifixion  had  become 
the  electrocution. 

At  the  foot  of  the  cross  had  been  nailed  a  rudely  made 
sign  conveying  to  all  who  passed  the  French  warning 
that  this  was  an  exposed  crossing  and  should  be  nego- 
tiated rapidly.     Fifty  yards  away  another  board  bore 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  243 

the  red  letters  R.  A.  S.  and  by  following  the  direction 
indicated  by  arrows,  one  arrived  at  the  cellar  in  which 
the  American  doctor  had  established  a  Relief  Aid  Station. 
The  Medico  had  furnished  his  subterranean  apartments 
with  furniture  removed  from  the  house  above. 

"Might  as  well  bring  it  down  here  and  make  the 
boys  comfortable,"  he  said,  "as  to  leave  it  up  there  and 
let  shells  make  kindling  out  of  it.  Funny  thing  about 
these  cellars.  Ones  with  western  exposure — that  is, 
with  doors  and  ventilators  opening  on  the  side  away 
from  the  enemy  seem  scarcest.  That  seems  to  have  been 
enough  to  have  revived  all  that  talk  about  German 
architects  having  had  something  to  do  with  the  erection 
of  those  buildings  before  the  war.  You  remember  at 
one  time  it  was  said  that  a  number  of  houses  on  the 
front  had  been  found  to  have  plaster  walls  on  the  side 
nearest  the  enemy  and  stone  walls  on  the  other  side. 
There  might  be  something  to  it,  but  I  doubt  it." 

Across  the  street  an  American  battalion  headquarters 
had  been  established  on  the  first  floor  and  in  the  base- 
ment of  the  house,  which  appeared  the  most  pretentious 
in  the  village.  Telephone  wires  now  entered  the  building 
through  broken  window  panes,  and  within  maps  had  been 
tacked  to  plaster  walls  and  the  furniture  submitted  to 
the  hard  usage  demanded  by  war.  An  old  man  con- 
spicuous by  his  civilian  clothes  wandered  about  the  yard 
here  and  there,  picking  up  some  stray  implement  or 
nick-nack,  hanging  it  up  on  a  wall  or  placing  it  carefully 
aside. 

"There's  a  tragedy,"  the  battalion  commander  told  me. 
"That  man  is  mayor  of  this  town.  He  was  forced  to  flee 
with  the  rest  of  the  civilians.  He  returned  to-day  to  look 
over  the  ruins.  This  is  his  house  we  occupy.  I  explained 
that  much  of  it  is  as  we  found  it,  but  that  we  undoubtedly 


244  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

have  broken  some  things.  I  could  see  that  every  broken 
chair  and  window  and  plate  meant  a  heart  throb  to  him, 
but  he  only  looked  up  at  me  with  his  wrinkled  old  face  and 
smiled  as  he  said,  'It  is  all  right,  Monsieur.  I  under- 
stand.   C'est  la  guerre.' " 

The  old  man  opened  one  of  his  barn  doors,  revealing  a 
floor  littered  with  straw  and  a  fringe  of  hobnailed  Ameri- 
can boots.  A  night-working  detail  was  asleep  in  blankets. 
A  sleepy  voice  growled  out  something  about  closing  the 
door  again  and  the  old  man  with  a  polite,  "Pardonnez-moi, 
messieurs,"  swung  the  wooden  portal  softly  shut.  His 
home — his  house — his  barn — his  straw — c'est  la  guerre. 

An  evening  meal  of  "corn  willy"  served  on  some  of 
the  Mayor's  remaining  chinaware,  was  concluded  by  a 
final  course  of  fresh  spring  onions.  These  came  from 
the  Mayor's  own  garden  just  outside  the  door.  As  the 
cook  affirmed,  it  was  no  difficulty  to  gather  them. 

"Every  night  Germans  drop  shells  in  the  garden,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  even  have  to  pull  'em.  Just  go  out  in  the 
morning  and  pick  'em  up  off  the  ground." 

I  spent  part  of  the  night  in  gun  pits  along  the  road 
side,  bordering  the  town.  This  particular  battery  of  heav- 
ies was  engaged  on  a  night  long  programme  of  interdic- 
tion fire  laid  down  with  irregular  intensity  on  cross  roads 
and  communication  points  in  the  enemy's  back  areas. 
Under  screens  of  camouflage  netting,  these  howitzers  with 
mottled  bores  squatting  frog-like  on  their  carriages,  inter- 
mittently vomited  flame,  red,  green  and  orange.  The  de- 
tonations were  ear-splitting  and  cannoneers  relieved  the 
recurring  shocks  by  clapping  their  hands  to  the  sides  of 
their  head  and  balancing  on  the  toes  each  time  the  lan- 
yard was  pulled. 

Infantry  reserves  were  swinging  along  in  the  road 
directly  in  back  of  the  guns.     They  were  moving  up  to 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  245 

forward  positions  and  they  sang  in  an  undertone  as  they 
moved  in  open  order. 

"Glor — ree — us,  Glor — ree — us ! 
One  keg  of  beer  for  the  four  of  us. 
Glory  be  to  Mike  there  are  no  more  of  us, 
For  four  of  us  can  drink  it  all  alone." 

Some  of  these  marchers  would  come  during  an  inter- 
val of  silence  to  a  position  on  the  road  not  ten  feet  from 
a  darkened,  camouflaged  howitzer  just  as  it  would  shat- 
ter the  air  with  a  deafening  crash.  The  suddenness  and 
unexpectedness  of  the  detonation  would  make  the  march- 
ers start  and  jump  involuntarily.  Upon  such  occasions, 
the  gun  crews  would  laugh  heartily  and  indulge  in  good 
natured  raillery  with  the  infantrymen. 

"Whoa,  Johnny  Doughboy,  don't  you  get  frightened. 
We  were  just  shipping  a  load  of  sauerkraut  to  the 
Kaiser,"  said  one  ear-hardened  gunner.  "Haven't  you 
heard  the  orders  against  running  your  horses?  Come 
down  to  a  gallop  and  take  it  easy." 

"Gwan,  you  leatherneck,"  returns  an  infantryman, 
"You  smell  like  a  livery  stable.  Better  trade  that  pitch- 
fork for  a  bayonet  and  come  on  up  where  there's  some 
fighting." 

"Don't  worry  about  the  fighting,  little  doughboy," 
came  another  voice  from  the  dark  gun  pit.  "This  is  a 
tray  forte  sector.  If  you  don't  get  killed  the  first  eight 
days,  the  orders  is  to  shoot  you  for  loafing.  You're 
marching  over  what's  called  'the  road  you  don't  come 
back  on.'  " 

A  train  of  ammunition  trucks,  timed  to  arrive  at  the 
moment  when  the  road  was  unoccupied,  put  in  appear- 
ance as  the  end  of  the  infantry  column  passed,  and  the 


246  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

captain  in  charge  urged  the  men  on  to  speedy  unloading 
and  fumed  over  delays  by  reason  of  darkness.  The  men 
received  big  shells  in  their  arms  and  carried  them  to  the 
roadside  dumps  where  they  were  piled  in  readiness  for 
the  guns.  The  road  was  in  an  exposed  position  and  this 
active  battery  was  liable  to  draw  enemy  fire  at  any  time, 
so  the  ammunition  train  captain  was  anxious  to  get  his 
charges  away  in  a  hurry. 

His  fears  were  not  without  foundation,  because  in  the 
midst  of  the  unloading,  one  German  missile  arrived  in  a 
nearby  field  and  sprayed  the  roadway  with  steel  just  as 
every  one  flattened  out  on  the  ground.  Five  ammunition 
hustlers  arose  with  minor  cuts  and  one  driver  was  swear- 
ing at  the  shell  fragment  which  had  gone  through  the 
radiator  of  his  truck  and  liberated  the  water  contents. 
The  unloading  was  completed  with  all  speed,  and  the 
ammunition  train  moved  off,  towing  a  disabled  truck. 
With  some  of  the  gunners  who  had  helped  in  unloading, 
I  crawled  into  the  chalk  dugout  to  share  sleeping  quarters 
in  the  straw. 

"What  paper  do  you  represent?"  one  man  asked  me  as 
he  sat  in  the  straw,  unwrapping  his  puttees.    I  told  him. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  the  most  popular  publication 
around  this  place?"  he  asked,  and  I  replied  affirmatively. 

"It's  called  the  Daily  Woollen  Undershirt,"  he  said. 
"Haven't  you  seen  everybody  sitting  along  the  roadside 
reading  theirs  and  trying  to  keep  up  with  things?  Be- 
lieve me,  it's  some  reading-matter,  too." 

"Don't  let  him  kid  you,"  said  the  section  chief,  "I 
haven't  had  to  read  mine  yet.  The  doctor  fixed  up  the 
baths  in  town  and  yesterday  he  passed  around  those  flea 
charms.    Have  you  seen  them?" 

For  our  joint  inspection  there  was  passed  the  string 
necklace  with  two  linen  tabs  soaked  in  aromatic  oil  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  247 

cedar,  while  the  section  chief  gave  an  impromptu  lec- 
ture on  personal  sanitation.  It  was  concluded  by  a  per- 
emptory order  from  without  for  extinction  of  all  lights. 
The  candle  stuck  on  the  helmet  top  was  snuffed  and  we 
lay  down  in  darkness  with  the  guns  booming  away  on 
either  side. 

Our  positions  were  located  in  a  country  almost  as  new 
to  war  as  were  the  fields  of  Flanders  in  the  fall  of  '14. 
A  little  over  a  month  before  it  had  all  been  peaceful 
farming  land,  far  behind  the  belligerent  lines.  Upon  our 
arrival,  its  sprouting  fields  of  late  wheat  and  oats  were 
untended  and  bearing  their  first  harvest  of  shell  craters. 

The  abandoned  villages  now  occupied  by  troops  told 
once  more  the  mute  tales  of  the  homeless.  The  villagers, 
old  men,  old  women  and  children,  had  fled,  driving  be- 
fore them  their  cows  and  farm  animals  even  as  they 
themselves  had  been  driven  back  by  the  train  of  German 
shells.  In  their  deserted  cottages  remained  the  fresh 
traces  of  their  departure  and  the  ruthless  rupturing  of 
home  ties,  generations  old. 

On  every  hand  were  evidences  of  the  reborn  war  of 
semi-movement.  One  day  I  would  see  a  battery  of  light 
guns  swing  into  position  by  a  roadside,  see  an  observing 
officer  mount  by  ladder  to  a  tree  top  and  direct  the  firing 
of  numberless  rounds  into  the  rumbling  east.  By  the 
next  morning,  they  would  have  changed  position,  rumbled 
off  to  other  parts,  leaving  beside  the  road  only  the  marks 
of  their  cannon  wheels  and  mounds  of  empty  shell  cases. 

Between  our  infantry  lines  and  those  of  the  German, 
there  was  yet  to  grow  the  complete  web  of  woven  wire 
entanglements  that  marred  the  landscapes  on  the  long  es- 
tablished fronts.  Still  standing,  silent  sentinels  over  some 
of  our  front  line  positions  were  trees,  church  steeples, 


248  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

dwellings  and  barns  that  as  yet  had  not  been  levelled  to 
the  ground.  Dugouts  had  begun  to  show  their  entrances 
in  the  surface  of  the  ground  and  cross  roads  had  started 
to  sprout  with  rudely  constructed  shelters.  Fat  sand- 
bags were  just  taking  the  places  of  potted  geraniums  on 
the  sills  of  first  floor  windows.  War's  toll  was  being  ex- 
acted daily,  but  the  country  had  yet  to  pay  the  full  price. 
It  was  going  through  that  process  of  degeneration  toward 
the  stripped  and  barren  but  it  still  held  much  of  its  erst- 
while beauty. 

Those  days  before  Cantigny  were  marked  by  particu- 
larly heavy  artillery  fire.  The  ordnance  duel  was  unre- 
lenting and  the  daily  exchange  of  shells  reached  an  aggre- 
gate far  in  excess  of  anything  that  the  First  Division 
had  ever  experienced  before. 

Nightly  the  back  areas  of  the  front  were  shattered 
with  shells.  The  German  was  much  interested  in  pre- 
venting us  from  bringing  up  supplies  and  munition. 
We  manifested  the  same  interest  toward  him.  Ameri- 
can batteries  firing  at  long  range,  harrassed  the  road  inter- 
sections behind  the  enemy's  line  and  wooded  places 
where  relief  troops  might  have  been  assembled  under 
cover  of  darkness.  The  expenditure  of  shells  was  enor- 
mous but  it  continued  practically  twenty-four  hours  a 
day.  German  prisoners,  shaking  from  the  nervous  ef- 
fects of  the  pounding,  certified  to  the  untiring  efforts  of 
our  gunners. 

The  small  nameless  village  that  we  occupied  almost 
opposite  the  German  position  in  Cantigny  seemed  to  re- 
ceive particular  attention  from  the  enemy  artillery.  In 
retaliation,  our  guns  almost  levelled  Cantigny  and  a 
nearby  village  which  the  enemy  occupied.  Every  hour, 
under  the  rain  of  death,  the  work  of  digging  was  con- 
tinued and  the  men  doing  it  needed  no  urging  from  their 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  249 

officers.  There  was  something  sinister  and  emphatic 
about  the  whine  of  a  "two  ten  German  H.  E."  that  in- 
spired one  with  a  desire  to  start  for  the  antipodes  by  the 
shortest  and  most  direct  route. 

The  number  of  arrivals  by  way  of  the  air  in  that  par- 
ticular village  every  day  numbered  high  in  the  thousands. 
Under  such  conditions,  no  life-loving  human  could  have 
failed  to  produce  the  last  degree  of  utility  out  of  a  spade. 
The  continual  dropping  of  shells  in  the  ruins  and  the 
unending  fountains  of  chalk  dust  and  dirt  left  little  for 
the  imagination,  but  one  officer  told  me  that  it  reminded 
him  of  living  in  a  room  where  some  one  was  eternally 
beating  the  carpet. 

This  taste  of  the  war  of  semi-movement  was  appreci- 
ated by  the  American  soldier.  It  had  in  it  a  dash  of  nov- 
elty, lacking  in  the  position  warfare  to  which  he  had 
become  accustomed  in  the  mud  and  marsh  of  the  Moselle 
and  the  Meuse.  For  one  thing,  there  were  better  and 
cleaner  billets  than  had  ever  been  encountered  before 
by  our  men.  Fresh,  unthrashed  oats  and  fragrant  hay 
had  been  found  in  the  hurriedly  abandoned  lofts  back 
of  the  line  and  in  the  caves  and  cellars  nearer  the  front. 

In  many  places  the  men  were  sleeping  on  feather  mat- 
tresses in  old-fashioned  wooden  bedsteads  that  had  been 
removed  from  jeopardy  above  ground  to  comparative 
safety  below.  Whole  caves  were  furnished,  and  not  badly 
furnished,  by  this  salvage  of  furniture,  much  of  which 
would  have  brought  fancy  prices  in  any  collection  of 
antiques. 

Forced  to  a  recognition  solely  of  intrinsic  values,  our 
men  made  prompt  utilisation  of  much  of  the  material 
abandoned  by  the  civilian  population.  Home  in  the  field  is 
where  a  soldier  sleeps  and  after  all,  why  not  have  it  as 
comfortable  as   his   surroundings   will   afford?     Those 


250  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

caves  and  vegetable  cellars,  many  with  walls  and  vaulted 
ceilings  of  clean  red  brick  or  white  blocks  of  chalk,  con- 
stituted excellent  shelters  from  shell  splinters  and  even 
protected  the  men  from  direct  hits  by  missiles  of  small, 
calibre. 

Beyond  the  villages,  our  riflemen  found  protection  in 
quickly  scraped  holes  in  the  ground.  There  were  some 
trenches  but  they  were  not  contiguous.  "No  Man's 
Land"  was  an  area  of  uncertain  boundary.  Our  gunners 
had  quarters  burrowed  into  the  chalk  not  far  from  their 
gun  pits.  All  communication  and  the  bringing  up  of 
shells  and  food  were  conducted  under  cover  of  darkness. 
Under  such  conditions,  we  lived  and  waited  for  the  order 
to  go  forward. 

Our  sector  in  that  battle  of  the  Somme  was  so  situ- 
ated that  the  opposing  lines  ran  north  and  south.  The 
enemy  was  between  us  and  the  rising  sun.  Behind  our 
rear  echelons  was  the  main  road  between  Amiens  and 
Beauvais.  Amiens,  the  objective  of  the  German  drive, 
was  thirty-five  kilometres  away  on  our  left,  Beauvais 
was  the  same  distance  on  our  right  and  two  hours  by 
train  from  Paris. 

We  were  eager  for  the  fight.  The  graves  of  our  dead 
dotted  new  fields  in  France.  We  were  holding  with  the 
French  on  the  Picardy  line.  We  were  between  the  Ger- 
mans and  the  sea.    We  were  before  Cantigny. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  251 

CHAPTER     XIII 

THE  RUSH  OF  THE  RAIDERS "ZERO  AT  2  A.  M." 

While  the  First  U.  S.  Division  was  executing  in 
Picardy  a  small,  planned  operation  which  resulted  in  the 
capture  of  the  German  fortified  positions  in  the  town  of 
Cantigny,  other  American  divisions  at  other  parts  along 
the  line  were  indulging  in  that  most  common  of  frontal 
diversions — the  raid. 

I  was  a  party  to  one  of  these  affairs  on  the  Toul  front. 
The  26th  Division,  composed  of  National  Guard  troops 
from  New  England,  made  the  raid.  On  Memorial  Day, 
I  had  seen  those  men  of  the  Yankee  Division  decorating 
the  graves  of  their  dead  in  a  little  cemetery  back  of  the 
line.  By  the  dawning  light  of  the  next  morning,  I  saw 
them  come  trooping  back  across  No  Man's  Land  after 
successfully  decorating  the  enemy  positions  with  Ger- 
man graves. 

It  was  evening  when  we  dismissed  our  motor  in  the 
ruined  village  of  Hamondville  and  came  into  first  contact 
with  the  American  soldiers  that  had  been  selected  for  the 
raid.  Their  engineers  were  at  work  in  the  street  connect- 
ing sections  of  long  dynamite-loaded  pipes  which  were 
to  be  used  to  blast  an  ingress  through  the  enemy's  wire. 
In  interested  circles  about  them  were  men  who  were  to 
make  the  dash  through  the  break  even  before  the  smoke 
cleared  and  the  debris  ceased  falling.  They  were  to  be 
distinguished  from  the  village  garrison  by  the  fact  that 
the  helmets  worn  by  the  raiders  were  covered  with  bur- 
lap and  some  of  them  had  their  faces  blackened. 

In  the  failing  evening  light,  we  walked  on  through 


252  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

several  heaps  of  stone  and  rafters  that  had  once  been  vil- 
lages, and  were  stopped  by  a  military  policeman  who  in- 
quired in  broad  Irish  brogue  for  our  passes.  These  meet- 
ing with  his  satisfaction,  he  advised  us  to  avoid  the  road 
ahead  with  its  dangerous  twist,  known  as  "Dead  Man's 
Curve,"  for  the  reason  that  the  enemy  was  at  that  min- 
ute placing  his  evening  contribution  of  shells  in  that  vi- 
cinity. Acting  on  the  policeman's  suggestion,  we  took  a 
short  cut  across  fields  rich  with  shell  holes.  Old  craters 
were  grown  over  with  the  grass  and  mustard  flowers  with 
which  this  country  abounds  at  this  time  of  year.  Newer 
punctures  showed  as  wounds  in  the  yellow  soil  and  con- 
tained pools  of  evil-smelling  water,  green  with  scum. 

Under  the  protection  of  a  ridge,  which  at  least  screened 
us  from  direct  enemy  observation,  we  advanced  toward 
the  jagged  skyline  of  a  ruined  village  on  the  crest.  The 
odour  of  open  graves  befouled  the  sheltered  slope,  indicat- 
ing that  enemy  shells  had  penetrated  its  small  protection 
and  disturbed  the  final  dugouts  of  the  fallen. 

Once  in  the  village  of  Beaumont,  we  followed  the 
winding  duckboards  and  were  led  by  small  signs  painted 
on  wood  to  the  colonel's  headquarters.  We  descended  the 
stone  steps  beneath  a  rickety  looking  ruin  and  entered. 

"Guests  for  our  party,"  was  the  Colonel's  greeting. 
The  command  post  had  a  long  narrow  interior  which  was 
well  lighted  but  poorly  ventilated,  the  walls  and  floor  were 
of  wood  and  a  low  beamed  ceiling  was  supported  by 
timbers.    "Well,  I  think  it  will  be  a  good  show." 

"We  are  sending  over  a  little  party  of  new  boys  just 
for  practice  and  a  'look-see'  in  Hunland.  We  have  two 
companies  in  this  regiment  which  feel  they've  sorter  been 
left  out  on  most  of  the  fun  to  date,  so  this  affair  has 
been  arranged  for  them.  We  put  the  plans  together  last 
week  and  pushed  the  boys  through  three  days  of  train- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  253 

ing  for  it  back  of  the  lines.  They're  fit  as  fiddlers  to- 
night and  it  looks  like  there'll  be  no  interruption  to  their 
pleasure. 

"No  one  man  in  the  world,  be  he  correspondent  or 
soldier,  could  see  every  angle  of  even  so  small  a  thing 
as  a  little  raid  like  this,"  the  Colonel  explained.  "What 
you  can't  see  you  have  got  to  imagine.  I'm  suggesting 
that  you  stay  right  in  here  for  the  show.  That  tele- 
phone on  my  adjutant's  desk  is  the  web  centre  of  all 
things  occurring  in  this  sector  to-night  and  the  closer 
you  are  to  it,  the  more  you  can  see  and  learn.  Lieutenant 
Warren  will  take  you  up  the  road  first  and  give  you  a 
look  out  of  the  observatory,  so  you'll  know  in  what  part 
of  Germany  our  tourists  are  going  to  explore." 

Darkness  had  fallen  when  we  emerged,  but  there  were 
sufficient  stars  out  to  show  up  the  outline  of  the  gaping 
walls  on  either  side  of  our  way.  We  passed  a  number  of 
sentries  and  entered  a  black  hole  in  the  wall  of  a  ruin. 
After  stumbling  over  the  uneven  floor  in  a  darkened  pas- 
sage for  some  minutes,  we  entered  a  small  room  where 
several  officers  were  gathered  around  a  table  on  which 
two  burning  candles  were  stuck  in  bottles.  Our  guide, 
stepping  to  one  end  of  the  room,  pulled  aside  a  blanket 
curtain  and  passed  through  a  narrow  doorway.  We  fol- 
lowed. 

LTp  a  narrow,  steep,  wooden  stairway  between  two 
walls  of  solid  masonry,  not  over  two  feet  apart,  we 
passed,  and  arrived  on  a  none  too  stable  wooded  run- 
way with  a  guide  rail  on  either  side.  Looking  up  through 
the  ragged  remains  of  the  wooden  roof  frame,  now  al- 
most nude  of  tiles,  we  could  see  the  starry  sky.  Pro- 
ceeding along  the  runway,  we  arrived,  somewhere  in  that 
cluster  of  ruins,  in  a  darkened  chamber  whose  interior 


254  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

blackness  was  relieved  by  a  lighter  slit,  an  opening  fac- 
ing the  enemy. 

Against  the  starry  skyline,  we  could  see  the  black  out- 
line of  a  flat  tableland  in  the  left  distance  which  we  knew 
to  be  that  part  of  the  heights  of  Meuse  for  whose  com- 
manding ridge  there  have  been  so  many  violent  con- 
tests between  the  close-locked  lines  in  the  forest  of 
Apremont.  More  to  the  centre  of  the  picture,  stood 
Mont  Sec,  detached  from  the  range  and  pushing  its  sum- 
mit up  through  the  lowland  mist  like  the  dorsal  fin  of 
a  porpoise  in  a  calm  sea.  On  the  right  the  lowland  ex- 
tended to  indistinct  distances,  where  it  blended  with  the 
horizon. 

In  all  that  expanse  of  quiet  night,  there  was  not  a 
single  flicker  of  light,  and  at  that  time  not  a  sound  to 
indicate  that  unmentionable  numbers  of  our  men  were 
facing  one  another  in  parallel  ditches  across  the  silent 
moor. 

"See  that  clump  of  trees  way  out  there?"  said  the 
lieutenant,  directing  our  vision  with  his  arm.  "Now 
then,  hold  your  hand  at  arm's  length  in  front  of  you, 
straight  along  a  line  from  your  eyes  along  the  left  edge 
of  your  hand  to  that  clump  of  trees.  Now  then,  look 
right  along  the  right  edge  of  your  hand  and  you  will  be 
looking  at  Richecourt.  The  Boche  hold  it.  We  go  in  on 
the  right  of  that  to-night." 

We  looked  as  per  instructions  and  saw  nothing.  As 
far  as  we  were  concerned  Richecourt  was  a  daylight 
view,  but  these  owls  of  the  lookout  knew  its  location  as 
well  as  they  knew  the  streets  of  their  native  towns  back 
in  New  England.  We  returned  to  the  colonel's  command 
post,  where  cots  were  provided,  and  we  turned  in  for  a 
few  hours'  sleep  on  the  promise  of  being  called  in  time. 

It  was  2  A.  M.  when  we  were  summoned  to  com- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  255 

mand  post  for  the  colonel's  explanation  of  the  night's 
plans.  The  regimental  commander,  smoking  a  long  pipe 
with  a  curved  stem,  sat  in  front  of  a  map  on  which  he 
conducted  the  exposition. 

"Here,"  he  said,  placing  his  finger  on  a  section  of 
the  line  marking  the  American  trenches,  "is  the  point  of 
departure.  That's  the  jumping  off  place.  These  X' 
marks  running  between  the  lines  is  the  enemy  wire,  and 
here,  and  here,  and  here  are  where  we  blow  it  up.  We 
reach  the  German  trenches  at  these  points  and  clean  up. 
Then  the  men  follow  the  enemy  communicating  trenches, 
penetrate  three  hundred  metres  to  the  east  edge  of  Riche- 
court,  and  return. 

"Zero  hour  is  2  .-30.  It's  now  2:10.  Our  raiders  have 
left  their  trenches  already.  They  are  out  in  No  Man's 
Land  now.  The  engineers  are  with  them  carrying  ex- 
plosives for  the  wire.  There  are  stretcher  bearers  in  the 
party  to  bring  back  our  wounded  and  also  signal  men  right 
behind  them  with  wire  and  one  telephone.  The  reports 
from  that  wire  are  relayed  here  and  we  will  also  be  kept 
informed  by  runners.  The  whole  party  has  thirty  min- 
utes in  which  to  crawl  forward  and  place  explosives  un- 
der the  wire.  They  will  have  things  in  readiness  by 
2  130  and  then  the  show  begins." 

Five  minutes  before  the  hour,  I  stepped  out  of  the 
dugout  and  looked  at  the  silent  sky  toward  the  front. 
Not  even  a  star  shell  disturbed  the  blue  black  starlight. 
The  guns  were  quiet.  Five  minutes  more  and  all  this 
was  to  change  into  an  inferno  of  sound  and  light,  flash 
and  crash.  There  is  always  that  minute  of  uncertainty 
before  the  raiding  hour  when  the  tensity  of  the  situation 
becomes  almost  painful.  Has  the  enemy  happened  to 
become  aware  of  the  plans?  Have  our  men  been  de- 
prived of  the  needed  element  of  surprise?    But  for  the 


"AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


thousands  of  metres  behind  us,  we  know  that  in  black 
battery  pits  anxious  crews  are  standing  beside  their 
loaded  pieces  waiting  to  greet  the  tick  of  2  130  with  the 
jerk  of  the  lanyard. 

Suddenly  the  earth  trembles.  Through  the  dugout 
window  facing  back  from  the  lines,  I  see  the  night  sky 
burst  livid  with  light.  A  second  later  and  the  crash 
reaches  our  ears.  It  is  deafening.  Now  we  hear  the 
whine  of  shells  as  they  burn  the  air  overhead.  The  tele- 
phone bell  rings. 

"Yes,  this  is  Boston,"  the  Adjutant  speaks  into  the  re- 
ceiver. We  listen  breathlessly.  Has  something  gone 
wrong  at  the  last  minute? 

"Right,  I  have  it,"  said  the  Adjutant,  hanging  up  the 
receiver  and  turning  to  the  Colonel;  "X-4  reports  bar- 
rage dropped  on  schedule." 

"Good,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Gentlemen,  here's  what's 
happening.  Our  shells  are  this  minute  falling  all  along 
the  German  front  line,  in  front  of  the  part  selected  for 
the  raid  and  on  both  flanks.  Now  then,  this  section 
of  the  enemy's  position  is  confined  in  a  box  barrage  which 
is  pounding  in  his  front  and  is  placing  a  curtain  of  fire 
on  his  left  and  his  right  and  another  in  his  rear.  Any 
German  within  the  confines  of  that  box  trying  to  get  out 
will  have  a  damn  hard  time  and  so  will  any  who  try  to 
come  through  it  to  help  him." 

"Boston  talking,"  the  Adjutant  is  making  answer  over 
the  telephone.  He  repeats  the  message.  "233,  all  the 
wire  blown  up,  right." 

"Fine,"  says  the  Colonel.  "Now  they  are  advancing 
and  right  in  front  of  them  is  another  rolling  barrage  of 
shells  which  is  creeping  forward  on  the  German  lines  at 
the  same  pace  our  men  are  walking.  They  are  walking 
in  extended  order  behind  it.     At  the  same  time  our  ar- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  257 


tillery  has  taken  care  of  the  enemy's  guns  by  this  time 
so  that  no  German  barrage  will  be  able  to  come  down  on 
our  raiders.  Our  guns  for  the  last  three  minutes  have 
been  dumping  gas  and  high  explosives  on  every  battery 
position  behind  the  German  lines.  That's  called  'Neu- 
tralisation.' " 

"Boston  talking."  The  room  grows  quiet  again  as  the 
Adjutant  takes  the  message. 

"2:36.     Y-i  reports  O.  K." 

"Everything  fine  and  dandy,"  the  Colonel  observes, 
smiling. 

"Boston  talking."     There  is  a  pause. 

"2  139.  G-y  reports  sending  up  three  red  rockets  east 
of  A-rcj.  The  operator  thinks  it's  a  signal  for  outposts 
to  withdraw  and  also  for  counter  barrage." 

"Too  late,"  snaps  the  Colonel.  "There's  a  reception 
committee  in  Hades  waiting  for  'em  right  now." 

At  2  140  the  dugout  door  opens  and  in  walks  Doc  Com- 
fort from  the  Red  Cross  First  Aid  Station  across  the 
road. 

"Certainly  is  a  pretty  sight,  Colonel.  Fritzies'  front 
door  is  lit  up  like  a  cathedral  at  high  mass." 

At  2:41.  "A  very  good  beginning,"  remarks  a  short, 
fat  French  Major  who  sits  beside  the  Colonel.  He  rep- 
resents the  French  army  corps. 

2  .-43.  "Boston  talking, —  Lieutenant  Kernan  re- 
ports everything  quiet  in  his  sector." 

2  45.  "Boston  talking,"  the  Adjutant  turns  to  the 
Colonel  and  repeats,  "Pittsburgh  wants  to  know  if 
there's  much  coming  in  here." 

"Tell  them  nothing  to  amount  to  anything,"  replies  the 
Colonel  and  the  Adjutant  repeats  the  message  over  the 
wire.  As  he  finished,  one  German  shell  did  land  so 
close  to  the  dugout  that  the  door  blew  open.     The  of- 


258  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ficer  stepped  to  the  opening  and  called  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Gas  guard.     Smell  anything?" 

"Nothing,  sir.     Think  they  are  only  high  explosives." 

2.47.  "Boston  talking — enemy  sent  up  one  red,  one 
green  rocket  and  then  three  green  rockets  from  B-14," 
the  Adjutant  repeats. 

"Where  is  that  report  from?"  asks  the  Colonel. 

"The  operator  at  Jamestown,  sir,"  replies  the  Adjutant. 

"Be  ready  for  some  gas,  gentlemen,"  says  the  Colonel. 
"I  think  that's  Fritzie's  order  for  the  stink.  Orderly, 
put  down  gas  covers  on  the  doors  and  windows." 

1  watched  the  man  unroll  the  chemically  dampened 
blankets  over  the  doors  and  windows. 

2  149.     "Boston  talking — 23  calls  for  barrage." 

The  Colonel  and  Major  turn  immediately  to  the  wall 
map,  placing  a  finger  on  23  position. 

"Hum,"  says  the  Colonel.  "Counter  attack,  hey?  Well, 
the  barrage  will  take  care  of  them,  but  get  me  Watson 
on  the  line." 

"Connect  me  with  Nantucket,"  the  Adjutant  asks  the 
operator.  "Hello,  Watson,  just  a  minute,"  turning  to 
Colonel,  "here's  Watson,  sir." 

"Hello,  Watson,"  the  Colonel  says,  taking  the  re- 
ceiver. "This  is  Yellow  Jacket.  Watch  out  for  counter 
attack  against  23.  Place  your  men  in  readiness  and  be 
prepared  to  support  Michel  on  your  right.  That's  all," 
returning  'phone  to  the  Adjutant,  "Get  me  Mr.  Lake." 

While  the  Adjutant  made  the  connection,  the  Colonel 
explained  quickly  the  planned  flanking  movement  on  the 
map.  "If  they  come  over  there,"  he  said  to  the  French 
Major,  "not  a  God-damn  one  of  them  will  ever  get  back 
alive." 

The  French  Major  made  a  note  in  his  report  book. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  259 

"Hello,  Lake,"  the  Colonel  says,  taking  the  'phone. 
"This  is  Yellow  Jacket.  Keep  your  runners  in  close 
touch  with  Michel  and  Watson.  Call  me  if  anything 
happens.     That's  all." 

3  :oo.  "Boston  talking — G-2  reports  all  O.K.  Still 
waiting  for  the  message  from  Worth." 

3.02.  "Storming  party  reports  unhindered  progress. 
No  enemy  encountered  yet." 

This  was  the  first  message  back  from  the  raiders.  It 
had  been  sent  over  the  wire  and  the  instruments  they 
carried  with  them  and  then  relayed  to  the  Colonel's  com- 
mand post. 

"Magnifiquc,"  says  the  French  Major. 

3  104.  "Boston  talking.  X-10  reports  gas  in  Bois  des 
Seicheprey." 

3  105.  "Boston  talking.  Hello,  yes,  nothing  coming 
in  here  to  amount  to  anything.  Just  had  a  gas  warning 
but  none  arrived  yet." 

3:07.     "Boston  talking, Yes,  all  right"  (turning 

to  Colonel),  "operator  just  received  message  from  storm- 
ing party  'so  far  so  good.'  " 

"Not  so  bad  for  thirty-seven  minutes  after  opening 
of  the  operation,"  remarks  the  Colonel. 

"What  is  'so  far  so  good'  ?"  inquires  the  French 
Major,  whose  knowledge  of  English  did  not  extend  to 
idioms.     Some  one  explained. 

3  :<y).  "Boston  talking — Watson  reports  all  quiet 
around  23  now." 

"Guess  that  barrage  changed  their  minds,"  remarks 
the  Colonel. 

With  gas  mask  at  alert,  I  walked  out  for  a  breath  of 
fresh  air.  The  atmosphere  in  a  crowded  dugout  is  sti- 
fling. From  guns  still  roaring  in  the  rear  and  from  in 
front  came  the  trampling  sound  of  shells  arriving  on 


260  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

German  positions.  The  first  hints  of  Sawn  were  in  the 
sky.     I  returned  in  time  to  note  the  hour  and  hear: 

3:18.  "Boston  talking — O-P  reports  enemy  drop- 
ping line  of  shells  from  B-4  to  B-8." 

"Trying  to  get  the  boys  coming  back,  hey?"  remarks 
the  Colonel.  "A  fat  chance.  They're  not  coming  back 
that  way." 

3:21.  "Boston  talking — 23  reports  that  the  barrage 
called  for  in  their  sector  was  because  the  enemy  had  ad- 
vanced within  two  hundred  yards  of  his  first  position. 
Evidently  they  wanted  to  start  something,  but  the  bar- 
rage nipped  them  and  they  fell  back  fast." 

"Perfect,"  says  the  French  Major. 

3  125.  "Boston  talking — two  green  and  two  red  rockets 
were  sent  up  by  the  enemy  from  behind  Richecourt." 

"Hell  with  'em,  now,"  the  Colonel  remarks. 

3  128.  "Boston  talking— all  O.  K.  in  Z-2.  Still  wait- 
ing to  hear  from  Michel." 

"I  rather  wish  they  had  developed  their  counter  at- 
tack," says  the  Colonel.  "I  have  a  reserve  that  would 
certainly  give  them  an  awful  wallop." 

3  130.  "Boston  talking — more  gas  in  Bois  des  Seiche- 
prey." 

3 :33.  "Boston  talking — white  stars  reported  from 
Richecourt." 

"They  must  be  on  their  way  back  by  this  time,"  says 
the  Colonel,  looking  at  his  watch. 

3  -.^y.  "Boston  talking, — enemy  now  shelling  on  the 
north  edge  of  the  town.    A  little  gas." 

3  :4c  "Boston  talking — X-i  reports  some  enemy  long 
range  retaliation  on  our  right. 

"They'd  better  come  back  the  other  way,"  says  the 
Colonel. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  261 

"That  was  the  intention,  sir,"  the  lieutenant  reported 
from  across  the  room. 

3  42.  "Boston  talking — signalman  with  the  party  re- 
ports everything  O.   K." 

"We  don't  know  yet  whether  they  have  had  any  losses 
or  got  any  prisoners,"  the  Colonel  remarks.  "But  the 
mechanism  seems  to  have  functioned  just  as  well  as  it 
did  in  the  last  raid.  We  didn't  get  a  prisoner  that  time, 
but  I  sorter  feel  that  the  boys  will  bring  back  a  couple 
with  them  to-night." 

3  .49.  "Boston  talking — G-9  reports  some  of  the  raid- 
ing party  has  returned  and  passed  that  point." 

"Came  back  pretty  quick,  don't  you  think  so,  Major?" 
said  the  Colonel  with  some  pride.  "Must  have  returned 
over  the  top." 

It  is  3:55  when  we  hear  fast  footsteps  on  the  stone 
stairs  leading  down  to  the  dugout  entrance.  There  is  a 
sharp  rap  on  the  door  followed  by  the  Colonel's  com- 
mand, "Come  in." 

A  medium  height  private  of  stocky  build,  with  shoul- 
ders heaving  from  laboured  breathing  and  face  wet  with 
sweat,  enters.  He  removes  his  helmet,  revealing  disor- 
dered blonde  hair.    He  faces  the  Colonel  and  salutes. 

"Sir,  Sergeant  Ransom  reports  with  message  from 
Liaison  officer.  All  groups  reached  the  objectives.  No 
enemy  encountered  on  the  right,  but  a  party  on  the  left  is 
believed  to  be  returning  with  prisoners.  We  blew  up 
their  dugouts  and  left  their  front  line  in  flames." 

"Good  work,  boy,"  says  the  Colonel,  rising  and  shaking 
the  runner's  hand.  "You  got  here  damn  quick.  Did 
you  come  by  the  Lincoln  trench?" 

"No,  sir,  I  came  over  the  top  from  the  battalion  post. 
Would  have  been  here  quicker,  but  two  of  us  had  to  carry 


262  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


back  one  boy  to  that  point  before  I  could  get  relieved." 

"Wounded?" 

"No,  sir,— dead." 

"Who  was  it?"  asks  the  young  lieutenant. 

"Private  Kater,  sir,  my  squad  mate." 

As  the  sergeant  raised  his  hand  in  parting  salute,  all 
of  us  saw  suspended  from  his  right  wrist  a  most  formi- 
dable weapon,  apparently  of  his  own  construction.  It  was 
a  pick  handle  with  a  heavy  iron  knob  on  one  end  and 
the  same  end  cushioned  with  a  mass  of  barbed  wire  rolled 
up  like  a  ball  of  yarn.    He  smiled  as  he  noticed  our  gaze. 

"It's  the  persuader,  sir,"  he  said.  "We  all  carried 
them." 

He  had  hardly  quitted  the  door  when  another  heavily 
breathing  figure  with  shirt  half  torn  off  by  barbed  wire 
appeared. 

"K  Company  got  there,  sir ;  beg  pardon,  sir.  I  mean 
sir,  Sergeant  Wiltur  reports,  sir,  with  message  from  Liai- 
son officer.  All  groups  reached  the  objectives.  They  left 
their  dugouts  blazing  and  brought  back  one  machine  gun 
and  three  prisoners." 

"Very  good,  Sergeant,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Orderly, 
get  some  coffee  for  these  runners." 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  doctor  first,  sir,"  said  the  runner 
with  the  torn  shirt.  "Got  my  hand  and  arm  cut  in  the 
wire." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Colonel,  turning  to  the  rest  of 
the  party,  "I  knew  my  boys  would  bring  back  bacon." 

More  footsteps  on  the  entrance  stairway  and  two  men 
entered  carrying  something  between  them.  Sweat  had 
streaked  through  the  charcoal  coating  on  their  faces  leav- 
ing striped  zebra-like  countenances. 

"Lieutenant  Burlon's  compliments,  sir,"  said  the  first 
man.    "Here's  one  of  their  machine  guns." 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  263 


"Who  got  it?"  inquired  the  Colonel. 

"Me  and  him,  sir." 

"How  did  you  get  it?" 

"We  just  rolled  'em  off  it  and  took  it." 

"Rolled  who  off  of  it?" 

"Two  Germans,  sir." 

"What  were  they  doing  all  that  time?" 

"Why,  sir,  they  weren't  doing  anything.  They  were 
dead."      . 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,"  said  the  Colonel.  "How  did 
you  happen  to  find  the  machine  gun?" 

"We  knew  where  it  was  before  we  went  over,  sir,"  said 
the  man  simply.  "We  were  assigned  to  get  it  and  bring 
it  back.  We  expected  we'd  have  to  fight  for  it,  but  I 
guess  our  barrage  laid  out  the  crew.  Anyhow  we  rushed 
to  the  position  and  found  them  dead." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Colonel,  "return  to  your  platoon. 
Leave  the  gun  here.  It  will  be  returned  to  you  later  and 
will  be  your  property." 

I  went  out  with  the  machine  gun  captors  and  walked 
with  them  to  the  road.  There  was  the  hum  of  motors 
high  overhead  and  we  knew  that  American  planes  were 
above,  going  forward  to  observe  and  photograph  Ger- 
man positions  before  the  effects  of  our  bombardments 
could  be  repaired.  A  line  of  flame  and  smoke  pouring  tip 
from  the  enemy's  front  line  showed  where  their  dugouts 
and  shelters  were  still  burning. 

Daylight  was  pouring  down  on  a  ruined  village  street, 
up  which  marched  the  returning  raiders  without  thought 
of  order.  They  were  a  happy,  gleeful  party,  with  hel- 
mets tipped  back  from  their  young  faces  wet  and  dirty, 
with  rifles  swung  over  their  shoulders  and  the  persuaders 
dangling  from  their  wrists.  Most  of  them  were  up  to 
their  knees  and  their  wrap  puttees  were  mostly  in  tat- 


264  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ters  from  the  contact  with  the  entanglements  through 
which  they  had  penetrated. 

As  they  approached,  I  saw  the  cause  for  some  of  the 
jocularity.  It  was  a  chubby,  little,  boyish  figure,  who 
sat  perched  up  on  the  right  shoulder  of  a  tall,  husky  Irish 
sergeant.  The  figure  steadied  itself  by  grasping  the 
sergeant's  helmet  with  his  left  hand.  The  sergeant 
steadied  him  by  holding  one  right  arm  around  his  legs. 

But  there  was  no  smile  on  the  face  of  the  thus  trans- 
formed object.  His  chubby  countenance  was  one  of 
easily  understood  concern.  He  was  not  a  day  over  six- 
teen years  and  this  was  quite  some  experience  for  him. 
He  was  one  of  the  German  prisoners  and  these  happy 
youngsters  from  across  the  seas  were  bringing  him  in 
almost  with  as  much  importance  as  though  he  had  been 
a  football  hero.  He  was  unhurt  and  it  was  unnecessary 
to  carry  him,  but  this  tribute  was  voluntarily  added,  not 
only  as  an  indication  of  extreme  interest,  but  to  reassure 
the  juvenile  captive  of  the  kindly  intentions  of  his  cap- 
tors. 

"Jiggers,  here's  the  Colonel's  dugout,"  one  voice 
shouted.     "Put  him  down  to  walk,  now." 

The  big  sergeant  acted  on  the  suggestion  and  the  lit- 
tle Fritz  was  lowered  to  the  ground.  He  immediately 
caught  step  with  the  big  sergeant  and  took  up  the  lat- 
ter's  long  stride  with  his  short  legs  and  feet  encased  in 
clumsy  German  boots.  His  soiled  uniform  had  been  the 
German  field  grey  green.  His  helmet  was  gone  but  he 
wore  well  back  on  his  head  the  flat  round  cloth  cap. 
With  his  fat  cheeks  he  looked  like  a  typical  baker's  boy, 
and  one  almost  expected  to  see  him  carrying  a  tray  of 
rolls  on  his  head. 

"For  the  luva  Mike,  Tim,"  shouted  an  ambulance  man, 
"do  you  call  that  a  prisoner?" 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGH^"  265 


"Sure  he  does  look  like  a  half  portion,"  replied 
Sergeant  Tim  with  a  smile.  "We  got  two  hundred 
francs  for  a  whole  one.  I  don't  know  what  we  can  cash 
this  one  in  for." 

"He  ought  to  be  worth  more,"  some  one  said;  "that 
barrage  cost  a  million  dollars.  He's  the  million  dollar 
baby  of  the  raid." 

"Sergeant,  I'm  not  kidding,"  came  one  serious  voice. 
"Why  turn  him  in  as  a  prisoner?  I  like  the  kid's  looks. 
Why  can't  we  keep  him  for  the  company  mascot?" 

The  discussion  ended  when  the  Sergeant  and  his  small 
charge  disappeared  in  the  Colonel's  quarters  for  the  in- 
evitable questioning  that  all  prisoners  must  go  through. 
Several  wounded  were  lying  on  the  stretchers  in  front  of 
the  first  aid  dugout  waiting  for  returning  ambulances 
and  passing  the  time  meanwhile  by  smoking  cigarettes 
and  explaining  how  close  each  of  them  had  been  to  the 
shell  that  exploded  and  "got  'em." 

But  little  of  the  talk  was  devoted  to  themselves.  They 
were  all  praise  for  the  little  chaplain  from  New  Eng- 
land who,  without  arms,  went  over  the  top  with  "his 
boys"  and  came  back  with  them.  It  was  their  opinion 
that  their  regiment  had  some  sky  pilot.  And  it  was 
mine,  also. 


266  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON  LEAVE  IN   PARIS 

"So  this — is  Paris," — this  observation  spoken  in  mock 
seriousness,  in  a  George  Cohan  nasal  drawl  and  accom- 
panied by  a  stiff  and  stagy  wave  of  the  arm,  was  the  cus- 
tomary facetious  pass-word  with  which  American  sol- 
diers on  leave  or  on  mission  announced  their  presence 
in  the  capital  of  France. 

Paris,  the  beautiful — Paris,  the  gay — Paris,  the  his- 
torical— Paris,  the  artistic — Paris,  the  only  Paris,  opened 
her  arms  to  the  American  soldier  and  proceeded  toward 
his  enlightenment  and  entertainment  on  the  sole  policy 
that  nothing  was  too  good  for  him. 

I  saw  the  first  American  soldiers  under  arms  reach 
Paris.  It  was  early  in  the  morning  of  July  3rd,  1917, 
when  this  first  American  troop  train  pulled  into  the  Gare 
d'Austerlitz.  It  was  early  in  the  morning,  yet  Paris  was 
there  to  give  them  a  welcome.  The  streets  outside  the 
station  were  jammed  with  crowds.  They  had  seen  Persh- 
ing ;  they  had  seen  our  staff  officers  and  headquarters  de- 
tails, but  now  they  wanted  to  see  the  type  of  our  actual 
fighting  men — they  wanted  to  see  the  American  poilus 
— the  men  who  were  to  carry  the  Stars  and  Stripes  over 
the  top. 

The  men  left  the  cars  and  lined  up  in  the  station  yard. 
It  had  been  a  long,  fifteen  hour  night  ride  and  the 
cramped  quarters  of  the  troop  train  had  permitted  but 
little  sleep.  There  was  no  opportunity  for  them  to  break- 
fast or  wash  before  they  were  put  on  exhibition. 
Naturally,  they  were  somewhat  nervous. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  267 

The  standing  line  was  ordered  to  produce  its  mess  cups 
and  hold  them  forward.  Down  the  line  came  a  bevy  of 
pretty  French  girls,  wearing  the  uniform  of  Red  Cross 
nurses.  They  carried  canisters  of  black  coffee  and  baskets 
of  cigarettes.  They  ladled  out  steaming  cupfuls  of  the 
black  liquid  to  the  men.  The  incident  gave  our  men  their 
first  surprise. 

Rum  or  alcohol  has  never  been  a  part  of  the  United 
States  army  ration.  In  the  memory  of  the  oldest  old- 
timers  in  the  ranks  of  our  old  regular  army,  "joy 
water"  had  never  been  issued.  On  the  other  hand,  its 
use  had  always  been  strictly  forbidden  in  the  company 
messes. .  Our  men  never  expected  it.  Thus  it  was  that, 
with  no  other  idea  occurring  to  them,  they  extended  their 
mess  cups  to  be  filled  with  what  they  thought  was  simply 
strong  hot  coffee.  Not  one  of  them  had  the  slightest 
suspicion  that  the  French  cooks  who  had  prepared  that 
coffee  for  their  new  American  brothers  in  arms,  had  put 
a  stick  in  it — had  added  just  that  portion  of  cognac 
which  they  had  considered  necessary  to  open  a  man's 
eyes  and  make  him  pick  up  his  heels  after  a  long  night 
in  a  troop  train. 

I  watched  one  old-timer  in  the  ranks  as  he  lifted  the 
tin  cup  to  his  lips  and  took  the  initial  gulp.  Then  he 
lowered  the  cup.  Across  his  face  there  dawned  first  an 
expression  of  curious  suspicion,  then  a  look  of  satisfied 
recognition,  and  then  a  smile  of  pleased  surprise,  which 
he  followed  with  an  audible  smacking  of  the  lips.  He 
finished  the  cup  and  allowed  quite  casually  that  he  could 
stand  another. 

"So  this  is  Paris," — well,  it  wasn't  half  bad  to  start 
with.  With  that  "'coffee"  under  their  belts,  the  men  re- 
sponded snappily  to  the  march  order,  and  in  column  of 
four,  they  swung  into  line  and  moved  out  of  the  station 


268  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

yard,  at  the  heels  of  their  own  band,  which  played  a 
stirring  marching  air. 

Paris  claimed  them  for  her  own.  All  that  the  war  had 
left  of  Paris'  gay  life,  all  the  lights  that  still  burned,  all 
the  music  that  still  played,  all  the  pretty  smiles  that  had 
never  been  reduced  in  their  quality  or  quantity,  all  that 
Paris  had  to  make  one  care- free  and  glad  to  be  alive — 
all  belonged  that  day  to  that  pioneer  band  of  American 
infantrymen. 

The  women  kissed  them  on  the  street.  Grey-headed 
men  removed  their  hats  to  them  and  shook  their  hands 
and  street  boys  followed  in  groups  at  their  heels  mak- 
ing the  air  ring  with  shrill  "Vive's."  There  were  not 
many  of  them,  only  three  companies.  The  men  looked 
trim  and  clean-cut.  They  were  tall  and  husky-looking 
and  the  snap  with  which  they  walked  was  good  to  the 
eyes  of  old  Paris  that  loves  verve. 

With  a  thirty-two-inch  stride  that  made  their  follow- 
ing admirers  stretch  their  legs,  the  boys  in  khaki  marched 
from  the  Austerlitz  station  to  the  Neuilly  barracks  over 
a  mile  away,  where  they  went  into  quarters.  Paris  was 
in  gala  attire.  In  preparation  for  the  celebration  of  the 
following  day,  the  shop  windows  and  building  fronts 
were  decked  with  American  flags. 

Along  the  line  of  march,  traffic  piled  up  at  the  street 
intersections  and  the  gendarmes  were  unable  to  prevent 
the  crowds  from  overflowing  the  sidewalks  and  pressing 
out  into  the  streets  where  they  could  smile  their  greetings 
and  throw  flowers  at  closer  range.  A  sergeant  flanking 
a  column  stopped  involuntarily  when  a  woman  on  the 
curb  reached  out,  grabbed  his  free  hand,  and  kissed  it.  A 
snicker  ran  through  the  platoon  as  the  sergeant,  with  face 
red  beneath  the  tan,  withdrew  his  hand  and  recaught  his 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  269 

step.  He  gave  the  snickering  squads  a  stern,  "Eyes 
front!"  and  tried  to  look  at  ease. 

How  the  bands  played  that  day!  How  the  crowds 
cheered!  How  the  flags  and  handkerchiefs  and  hats 
waved  in  the  air,  and  how  thousands  of  throats  volleyed 
the  "Vive's !"  This  was  the  reception  of  our  first  fight- 
ing men.  But  on  the  following  day  they  received  even  a 
greater  demonstration,  when  they  marched  through  the 
streets  of  the  city  on  parade,  and  participated  in  the  first 
Parisian  celebration  of  American  Independence  Day. 

Parisians  said  that  never  before  had  Paris  shown  so 
many  flags,  not  even  during  the  days  three  years  before, 
when  the  sons  of  France  had  marched  away  to  keep  the 
Germans  out  of  Paris.  It  seemed  that  the  customary 
clusters  of  Allied  flags  had  been  almost  entirely  re- 
placed for  the  day  by  groups  composed  solely  of  the 
French  tricolour  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  Taxis  and 
fiacres  flew  flags  and  bunting  from  all  attachable  places. 
Flag  venders  did  wholesale  business  on  the  crowded 
streets.  Street  singers  sang  patriotic  parodies,  eulogis- 
ing Uncle  Sam  and  his  nephews,  and  garnered  harvests 
of  sous  for  their  efforts. 

The  three  companies  of  our  regulars  marched  with  a 
regiment  of  French  colonials,  all  veterans  of  the  war 
and  many  of  them  incapacitated  for  front  service  through 
wounds  and  age.  French  soldiers  on  leave  from  the 
trenches  and  still  bearing  the  mud  stains  of  the  battle 
front  life,  cheered  from  the  sidewalks.  Bevies  of  mid- 
dinettes  waved  their  aprons  from  the  windows  of  mil- 
linery shops.  Some  of  them  shouted,  "Vive  les  Teddies !" 
America — the  great,  good  America — the  sister  republic 
from  across  the  seas  was  spoken  of  and  shouted  all  day 
long.  Paris  capitulated  unconditionally  to  three  com- 
panies of  American  infantry. 


270  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

From  that  day  on,  every  American  soldier  visiting 
Paris  has  been  made  to  feel  himself  at  home.  And  the 
unrestricted  hospitality  did  not  seem  to  be  the  result  of 
an  initial  wave  of  enthusiasm.  It  was  continuous.  For 
months  afterward,  any  one  wearing  an  American  uni- 
form along  the  boulevards  could  hear  behind  him  dulcet 
whispers  that  carried  the  words  tres  gentil. 

At  first,  our  enlisted  men  on  leave  in  Paris  or  detailed 
for  work  in  the  city,  were  quartered  in  the  old  Pipincerie 
Barracks,  where  other  soldiers  from  all  of  the  Allied 
armies  in  the  world  were  quartered.  Our  men  mingled 
with  British  Tommies,  swarthy  Italians  and  Portuguese, 
tall  blond  Russians,  French  poilus,  Canadians,  Australians 
and  New  Zealanders.  At  considerable  expense  to  these 
comrades  in  arms,  our  men  instructed  them  in  the  ail- 
American  art  of  plain  and  fancy  dice  rolling. 

Later  when  our  numbers  in  Paris  increased,  other  ar- 
rangements for  housing  were  made.  The  American 
policing  of  Paris,  under  the  direction  of  the  Expedi- 
tionary Provost  General,  Brigadier  General  Hillaire,  was 
turned  over  to  the  Marines.  Whether  it  was  that  our 
men  conducted  themselves  in  Paris  with  the  orderliness 
of  a  guest  at  the  home  of  his  host,  or  whether  it  was 
that  the  Marines  with  their  remarkable  discipline  sup- 
pressed from  all  view  any  too  hearty  outbursts  of  Ameri- 
can exuberance,  it  must  be  said  that  the  appearance  and 
the  bearing  of  American  soldiers  in  Paris  were  always 
above  reproach. 

I  have  never  heard  of  one  being  seen  intoxicated  in 
Paris,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  more  opportunities  pre- 
sented themselves  for  drinking  than  had  ever  before  been 
presented  to  an  American  army.  The  privilege  of  sitting 
at  a  table  in  front  of  a  sidewalk  cafe  on  a  busy  boulevard 
and  drinking  a  small  glass  of  beer  unmolested,  was  one 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  271 

that  our  men  did  not  take  advantage  of.  It  was  against 
the  law  to  serve  any  of  the  stronger  liqueurs  to  men  in 
uniform,  but  beer  and  light  wines  were  obtainable  all  the 
time.  All  cafes  closed  at  9 130.  In  spite  of  the  ever  pres- 
ent opportunity  to  obtain  beverages  of  the  above  char- 
acter, there  was  many  and  many  an  American  soldier  who 
tramped  the  boulevards  and  canvassed  the  cafes,  drug 
stores  and  delicatessen  shops  in  search  of  a  much-de- 
sired inexistent,  ice  cream  soda. 

Many  of  our  men  spent  their  days  most  seriously  and 
most  studiously,  learning  the  mysteries  of  transportation 
on  the  busses  and  the  Paris  underground  system,  while 
they  pored  over  their  guide  books  and  digested  pages  of 
information  concerning  the  points  of  interest  that  Paris 
had  to  offer.  Holidays  found  them  shuffling  through  the 
tiled  corridors  of  the  Invalides  or  looking  down  into  the 
deep  crypt  at  the  granite  tomb  of  the  great  Napoleon.  In 
the  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  the  gardens  of  the  Tuilleries, 
or  at  the  Luxembourg,  the  American  uniform  was  ever 
present.  At  least  one  day  out  of  every  ten  day  leave  was 
spent  in  the  palace  and  the  grounds  at  Versailles. 

The  theatres  of  Paris  offered  a  continual  change  of 
amusement.  One  of  the  most  popular  among  these  was 
the  Folies  Bergeres.  Some  of  our  men  didn't  realise  until 
after  they  entered  the  place  that  it  was  a  French  theatre. 
Due  to  the  French  pronunciation  of  the  name,  some  of 
the  American  soldiers  got  the  idea  that  it  was  a  saloon 
run  by  an  Irishman  by  the  name  of  Foley.  "Bergere"  to 
some  was  unpronounceable,  so  the  Folies  Bergeres  was 
most  popularly  known  in  our  ranks  as  "Foley's  place." 

Another  popular  amusement  place  was  the  Casino  de 
Paris,  where  an  echo  from  America  was  supplied  by  an 
American  negro  jazz  band,  which  dispensed  its  question- 
able music   in  the  promcnoir  during  the   intermission. 


272 "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

There  were  five  negroes  in  the  orchestra  and  each  one 
of  them  seemed  to  have  an  ardent  dislike  for  the  remain- 
ing four.  Individually  they  manifested  their  mutual  con- 
tempt by  turning  their  backs  on  one  another  while  they 
played.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  a  most  fascinating  type 
of  harmony  resulted,  producing  much  swaying  of  shoul- 
ders, nodding  of  heads  and  snapping  of  fingers  among 
the  American  soldiers  in  the  crowd.  French  men  and 
women,  with  their  old  world  musical  taste,  would  con- 
sider the  musical  gymnastics  of  the  demented  drummer 
in  the  orchestra,  then  survey  the  swaying  Americans  and 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  world  had  gone  plumb 
to  hell. 

All  types  of  American  soldiers  made  Paris  their  mecca 
as  soon  as  the  desired  permissions  had  been  granted.  One 
day  I  sat  opposite  a  remarkable  type  whom  I  found  din- 
ing in  a  small  restaurant.  I  noticed  the  absence  of  either 
beer  or  wine  with  his  meal,  and  he  frankly  explained 
that  he  had  never  tasted  either  in  his  life.  He  thanked 
me,  but  refused  to  accept  a  cigarette  I  offered,  saying 
without  aside  that  he  had  yet  his  first  one  to  smoke. 
When  I  heard  him  tell  Madame  that  he  did  not  care  for 
coffee,  I  asked  him  why,  and  he  told  me  that  his  mother 
had  always  told  him  it  was  injurious  and  he  had  never 
tasted  it. 

I  became  more  interested  in  this  ideal,  young  American 
soldier  and  questioned  him  about  his  life.  I  found  that 
he  and  his  father  had  worked  in  the  copper  mines  in 
Michigan.  They  were  both  strong  advocates  of  union 
labour  and  had  participated  vigorously  in  the  bloody 
Michigan  strikes. 

"Father  and  I  fought  that  strike  clear  through,"  he 
said.  ''Our  union  demands  were  just.  Here  in  this  war 
I  am  fighting  just  the  same  way  as  we  fought  against 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  273 

the  mine  operators  in  Michigan.  I  figure  it  out  that 
Germany  represents  low  pay,  long  hours  and  miserable 
working  conditions  for  the  world.  I  think  the  Kaiser  is 
the  world's  greatest  scab.  I  am  over  here  to  help  get 
him." 

One  day  in  the  Chatham  Hotel,  in  Paris,  I  was  dining 
with  an  American  Brigadier  General,  when  an  American 
soldier  of  the  ranks  approached  the  table.  At  a  re- 
spectful distance  of  five  feet,  the  soldier  halted,  clicked 
his  heels  and  saluted  the  General.  He  said,  "Sir,  the 
orderly  desires  permission  to  take  the  General's  car  to 
headquarters  and  deliver  the  packages." 

"All  right,  Smith,"  replied  the  General,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "Find  out  if  my  other  uniform  is  back  yet  and 
then  get  back  here  yourself  with  the  car  in  half  an  hour." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  man  as  he  saluted,  exe- 
cuted a  snappy  right  about  face  and  strode  out  of  the 
dining-room. 

"Strange  thing  about  that  chauffeur  of  mine,"  said 
the  General  to  me.  "I  had  a  lot  of  extra  work  yesterday 
on  his  account.  I  had  to  make  out  his  income  tax  re- 
turns. He  and  his  dad  own  almost  all  the  oil  in  Okla- 
homa. When  he  paid  his  income  tax,  Uncle  Sam  got  a 
little  over  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  He  went  in  the 
army  in  the  ranks.  He  is  only  an  enlisted  private  now, 
but  he's  a  good  one." 

Walking  out  of  the  Gare  du  Nord  one  day,  I  saw  a  man 
in  an  American  uniform  and  a  French  Gendarme  vainly 
trying  to  talk  with  each  other.  The  Frenchman  was 
waving  his  arms  and  pointing  in  various  directions  and 
the  American  appeared  to  be  trying  to  ask  questions. 
With  the  purpose  of  offering  my  limited  knowledge  of 


274  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

French  to  straighten  out  the  difficulty,  I  approached  the 
pair  and  asked  the  American  soldier  what  he  wanted.  He 
told  me  but  I  don't  know  what  it  was  to  this  day.  He 
spoke  only  Polish. 

It  was  not  alone  amidst  the  gaiety  of  Paris  that  our 
soldiers  spread  the  fame  of  America.  In  the  peaceful 
countrysides  far  behind  the  flaming  fronts,  the  Yankee 
fighting  men  won  their  way  into  the  hearts  of  the  French 
people.  Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  a  Christmas  celebra- 
tion in  a  little  French  village  in  the  Vosges. 

Before  dawn  there  were  sounds  of  movement  in  the 
murky  half-light  of  the  village  street.  A  long  line  of 
soldiers  wound  their  way  past  flaming  stoves  of  the 
mess  shacks,  where  the  steaming  coffee  took  the  chill  out 
of  the  cold  morning  stomachs. 

Later  the  sun  broke  bright  and  clear.  It  glistened  on 
the  snow-clad  furrows  of  the  rolling  hills,  in  which,  for 
centuries,  the  village  of  Saint  Thiebault  has  drowsed 
more  or  less  happily  beside  its  ancient  canal  and  in  the 
shadow  of  the  steeple  of  the  church  of  the  good  Saint 
Thiebault. 

Now  a  thousand  men  or  more,  brown-clad  and  metal- 
helmeted,  know  the  huts  and  stables  of  Saint  Thiebault 
as  their  billets,  and  the  seventy  little  boys  and  girls  of  the 
parish  know  those  same  thousand  men  as  their  new 
big  brothers — les  bons  Americains. 

The  real  daddies  and  big  brothers  and  uncles  of  those 
seventy  youngsters  have  been  away  from  Saint  Thie- 
bault for  a  long  time  now — yes,  this  is  the  fourth  Christ- 
mas that  the  urgent  business  in  northern  France  has  kept 
them  from  home.  They  may  never  return  but  that  is  un- 
known to  the  seventy  young  hopefuls. 

There  was  great  activity  in  the  colonel's  quarters  dur- 


MARINES    MARCHING   DOWN   THE    AVENUE    PRESIDENT   WILSON 
ON    THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY   IN    PARIS 


ISRIDOF.   CROSSING     M\H\i:    RTVEH    l\    i  II  ATE  A I  -  II I  D2RB  V    DESTROYED    1IY 
GERMANS    IN    THEIR    RETREAT    FROM     TOWN 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  275 


ing  the  morning,  and  it  is  said  that  a  sleuthing  seventy 
were  intent  on  unveiling  the  mystery  of  these  unusual 
American  preparations.  They  stooped  to  get  a  peep 
through  the  windows  of  the  room,  and  Private  Larson, 
walking  his  post  in  front  of  the  sacred  precincts,  had  to 
shoo  them  away  frequently  with  threatening  gestures  and 
Swedish-American-French  commands,  such  as  "Allay 
veet — Allay  veet  fell  outer  here." 

An  energetic  bawling  from  the  headquarters  cook 
shack  indicated  that  one  juvenile  investigator  had  come 
to  grief.  Howls  emanated  from  little  Paul  Laurent,  who 
could  be  seen  stumbling  across  the  road,  one  blue,  cold 
hand  poking  the  tears  out  of  his  eyes  and  the  other  hold- 
ing the  seat  of  his  breeches. 

Tony  Moreno,  the  company  cook,  stood  in  front  of  the 
cook  shack  shaking  a  soup  ladle  after  the  departing  Paul 
and  shouting  imprecations  in  Italian-American. 

'Tarn  leetle  fool !"  shouted  Tony  as  he  returned  to  the 
low  camp  stove  and  removed  a  hot  pan,  the  surface  of 
whose  bubbling  contents  bore  an  unmistakable  imprint. 
"Deese  keeds  make  me  seek.  I  catcha  heem  wit  de  finger 
in  de  sugar  barrel.  I  shout  at  heem.  He  jumpa  back.  He 
fall  over  de  stove  and  sita  down  in  de  pan  of  beans.  He 
spoila  de  mess.     He  burn  heese  pants.    Tarn  good !" 

And  over  there  in  front  of  the  regimental  wagon  train 
picket  line,  a  gesticulating  trio  is  engaged  in  a  three 
cornered  Christmas  discussion.  One  is  M.  Lecompte, 
who  is  the  uniformed  French  interpreter  on  the  Colonel's 
staff,  and  he  is  talking  to  "Big"  Moriarity,  the  teamster, 
the  tallest  man  in  the  regiment.  The  third  party  to  the 
triangle  is  little  Pierre  Lafite,  who  clings  to  M.  Le- 
compte's  hand  and  looks  up  in  awe  at  the  huge  Irish 
soldier. 

"He  wants  to  borrow  one  of  these,"  M.  Lecompte  says, 


276  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

pointing  to  the  enormous  hip  boots  which  Moriarity  is 
wearing. 

"He  wants  to  borrow  one  of  me  boots?"  repeated  the 
Irishman.  "And  for  the  love  of  heavin,  what  would  he 
be  after  doin'  wid  it?  Sure  and  the  top  of  it  is  higher 
than  the  head  of  him." 

"It  is  for  this  purpose,"  explains  the  interpreter. 
"The  French  children  do  not  hang  up  their  stockings  for 
Christmas.  Instead  they  place  their  wooden  shoes  on 
the  hearth  and  the  presents  and  sweets  are  put  in  them. 
You  see,  Pierre  desires  to  receive  a  lot  of  things." 

"Holy  Mother!"  replies  Moriarity,  kicking  off  one 
boot  and  hopping  on  one  foot  toward  the  stables.  "Take 
it,  you  scamp,  and  I  hopes  you  get  it  filled  wid  dimonds 
and  gold  dust.  But  mind  ye,  if  you  get  it  too  near  the 
fire  and  burn  the  rubber  I'll  eat  you  like  you  was  a 
oyster." 

The  Irish  giant  emphasised  his  threat  with  a  grimace 
of  red-whiskered  ferocity  and  concluded  by  loudly  smack- 
ing his  lips.  Then  little  Pierre  was  off  to  his  mother's 
cottage,  dragging  the  seven  league  boot  after  him. 

With  the  afternoon  meal,  the  last  of  the  packages  had 
been  tied  with  red  cords  and  labelled,  and  the  interior  of 
the  Colonel's  quarters  looked  like  an  express  office  in  the 
rush  season.  The  packages  represented  the  purchases 
made  with  1,300  francs  which  the  men  of  the  battalion 
had  contributed  for  the  purpose  of  having  Christmas 
come  to  Saint  Thiebault  in  good  style. 

M.  Lecompte  has  finished  sewing  the  red  and  white 
covering  which  is  to  be  worn  by  "Hindenburg,"  the  most 
docile  mule  in  the  wagon  train,  upon  whom  has  fallen  the 
honour  of  drawing  the  present  loaded  sleigh  of  the 
Christmas  saint. 

"Red"  Powers,  the  shortest,  fattest  and  squattiest  man 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  277 

in  the  battalion,  is  investing  himself  with  baggy,  red 
garments,  trimmed  with  white  fur  and  tassels,  all  made 
out  of  cloth  by  hands  whose  familiarity  with  the  needle 
has  been  acquired  in  bayonet  practice.  Powers  has 
donned  his  white  wig  and  whiskers  and  his  red  cap. 
tasseled  in  white.  He  is  receiving  his  final  instructions 
from  the  colonel. 

"You  may  grunt,  Powers,"  the  colonel  is  saying,  "but 
don't  attempt  to  talk  French  with  that  Chicago  accent. 
We  don't  want  to  frighten  the  children.  And  remember, 
you  are  not.  Santa  Clans.  You  are  Papa  Noel.  That's 
what  the  French  children  call  Santa  Claus." 

It  is  three  o'clock,  and  the  regimental  band,  assembled 
in  marching  formation  in  the  village  street,  blares  out 
"I  Wish  I  Were  in  the  Land  of  Cotton,"  and  there  is 
an  outpouring  of  children,  women  and  soldiers  from 
every  door  on  the  street.  The  colonel  and  his  staff  stand 
in  front  of  their  quarters  opposite  the  band,  and  a 
thousand  American  soldiers,  in  holiday  disregard  for 
formation,  range  along  either  side  of  the  street. 

The  large  wooden  gate  of  the  stable  yard,  next  to  the 
commandant's  quarters,  swings  open;  there  is  a  jingle  of 
bells,  and  "Hindenburg,"  resplendent  in  his  fittings,  and 
Papa  Noel  Powers  sitting  high  on  the  package-heaped 
sleigh,  move  out  into  the  street.  Their  appearance  is 
met  with  a  crash  of  cymbals,  the  blare  of  the  band's 
loudest  brass,  and  the  happy  cries  of  the  children  and  the 
deeper  cheers  of  the  men. 

Christmas  had  come  to  Saint  Thiebault.  Up  the  street 
went  the  procession,  the  band  in  the  lead  playing  a  lively 
jingling  piece  of  music  well  matched  to  the  keenness  of 
the  air  and  the  willingness  of  young  blood  to  tingle  with 
the  slightest  inspiration. 

"Hindenburg,"  with  a  huge  pair  of  tin  spectacles  gog- 


278  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

gling  his  eyes,  tossed  his  head  and  made  the  bells  ring  all 
over  his  gala  caparison.  Papa  Noel,  mounted  on  the 
pyramid  of  presents,  bowed  right  and  left  and  waved  his 
hands  to  the  children,  to  the  soldiers,  to  the  old  men  and 
the  old  women. 

As  the  youngsters  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  sleigh, 
the  soldiers  picked  them  up  and  carried  them  on  their 
shoulders,  on  "piggy"  back,  or  held  them  out  so  they 
could  shake  hands  with  Papa  Noel  and  hear  that  digni- 
tary gurgle  his  appreciation  in  wonderful  north  pole 
language. 

When  Papa  Noel  found  out  that  he  could  trust  the 
flour  paste  and  did  not  have  to  hold  his  whiskers  on  by 
biting  them,  he  gravely  announced,  "Wee,  wee,"  to  all  the 
bright-eyed,  red-cheeked  salutations  directed  his  way. 

The  band  halted  in  front  of  the  ancient  church  of 
Saint  Thiebault,  where  old  Father  Gabrielle  stood  in  the 
big  doorway,  smiling  and  rubbing  his  hands.  Upon  his 
invitation  the  children  entered  and  were  placed  in  the 
first  row  of  chairs,  the  mothers,  grandmothers,  grand- 
fathers, and  young  women  sat  in  back  of  them,  and  fur- 
ther back  sat  the  regimental  officers.  The  soldiers  filled 
the  rest  of  the  church  to  the  doors. 

The  brief  ceremony  ended  with  a  solemn  benediction 
and  then  the  curtains  were  drawn  back  from  one  of  the 
arches  in  front  of  and  to  the  left  of  the  main  altar. 

There  stood  Saint  Thiebault's  first  Christmas  tree,  or 
at  least  the  first  one  in  four  years.  It  was  lighted  with 
candles  and  was  resplendent  with  decorations  that  repre- 
sented long  hours  of  work  with  shears  and  paste  on  the 
part  of  unaccustomed  fingers.  Suggestions  from  a  thou- 
sand Christmas  minds  were  on  that  tree,  and  the  result 
showed  it.  The  star  of  Bethlehem,  made  of  tinsel, 
glistened  in  the  candlelight. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  279 


Not  even  the  inbred  decorum  of  the  church  was  suf- 
ficient to  restrain  the  involuntary  expressions  of  admira- 
tion of  the  saint  by  the  seventy  youngsters.  They  oh-ed 
and  ah-ed  and  pointed,  but  they  enjoyed  it  not  a  whit 
more  than  did  the  other  children  in  the  church,  some  of 
whose  ages  ran  to  three  score  and  more. 

Papa  Noel  walked  down  the  centre  aisle  leading  a  file 
of  soldiers,  each  of  whom  carried  a  heaping  armful  of 
packages.  Young  necks  craned  and  eyes  bulged  as  the 
packages  were  deposited  on  the  tables  in  front  of  the 
communion  rail.  M.  Lecompte  raised  his  hands  for 
silence  and  spoke. 

"These  Americans,"  he  said,  "have  come  to  our 
country  to  march  and  to  fight  side  by  side  with  your 
fathers  and  your  big  brothers  and  your  uncles  and  all 
the  men  folk  who  have  been  away  from  Saint  Thiebault 
so  long.  These  Americans  want  to  take  their  places  for 
you  to-day.  These  Americans  in  doing  these  things  for 
you  are  thinking  of  their  own  little  girls  and  little  boys 
away  back  across  the  ocean  who  are  missing  their  fathers 
and  big  brothers  and  uncles  to-day,  just  the  same  as  you 
miss  yours." 

There  were  wet  eyes  among  the  women  and  some  of 
the  older  men  in  khaki  closed  their  eyes  and  seemed  to 
be  transporting  themselves  thousands  of  miles  away  to 
other  scenes  and  other  faces.  But  the  reverie  was  only 
for  a  minute. 

M.  Lecompte  began  calling  the  names  for  the  distribu- 
tion of  gifts  and  the  children  of  Saint  Thiebault  began 
their  excited  progress  toward  the  tables.  Here  Papa 
Noel  delivered  the  prized  packages. 

"For  Marie  Louise  Larue,"  said  M.  Lecompte,  "a 
hair  ribbon  of  gold  and  black  with  a  tortoise  bandeau." 


280  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"For  Gaston  Ponsot,  a  toy  cannon  that  shoots  and  six 
German  soldiers  at  least  to  shoot." 

"For  Colette  Daville,  a  warm  cape  of  red  cloth  with 
a  collar  of  wool." 

"For  Alphonse  Benois,  an  aeroplane  that  flies  on  a 
string." 

"For  Eugenie  Fontaine,  a  doll  that  speaks." 

"For  Emilie  Moreau,  a  pair  of  shoes  with  real  leather 
soles  and  tops." 

"For  Camille  Laurent,  red  mittens  of  wool  and  a  sheep- 
skin muff." 

"For  Jean  Artois,  a  warship  that  moves  and  flies  the 
American  flag." 

It  continued  for  more  than  an  hour.  The  promoters 
of  the  celebration  were  wise  to  their  work.  There  was 
more  than  one  present  for  each  child.  They  did  not  know 
how  many.  Time  after  time,  their  names  were  called  and 
they  clattered  forward  in  their  wooden  shoes  for  each 
new  surprise. 

The  presents  ran  the  range  of  toys,  clothing,  games, 
candies  and  nuts,  but  the  joy  was  in  sitting  there  and 
waiting  for  one's  name  to  be  called  and  going  forward  to 
partake  of  that  most  desirable  "more." 

Big  Moriarity  had  his  hands  in  the  incident  that  served 
as  a  climax  to  the  distribution.  He  had  whispered  some- 
thing to  M.  Lecompte  and  the  result  was  that  one  little 
duffer,  who  sat  all  alone  on  a  big  chair,  and  hugged  an 
enormous  rubber  boot,  waited  and  waited  expectantly  to 
hear  the  name  "Pierre  Lafite"  called  out. 

All  the  other  names  had  been  called  once  and  not  his. 
He  waited.  All  the  names  had  been  called  twice  and  still 
not  his.  He  waited  through  the  third  and  the  fourth  call- 
ing  in   vain,   and   his  chin   was  beginning  to   tremble 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGH'I  281 

suspiciously  as  the  fifth  calling  proceeded  without  the 
sound  of  his  name. 

The  piles  of  packages  on  the  tables  had  been  getting 
smaller  all  the  time.  Then  M.  Lecompte  pronounced 
the  very  last  name. 

"Pierre  Lafite,"  he  called. 

Pierre's  heart  bounded  as  he  slipped  off  the  chair  and 
started  up  the  aisle  dragging  his  big  rubber  boot.  The 
rest  of  the  children  had  returned  to  their  seats.  All  the 
elders  in  the  church  were  watching  his  progress. 

"For  Pierre  Lafite,"  repeated  M.  Lecompte,  holding  up 
the  enormous  boot.  "A  pair  of  real  leather  shoes  to  fit  in 
the  foot  of  the  boot."    He  placed  them  there. 

"And  a  pair  of  stilts  to  fit  in  the  leg  of  the  boot."  He 
so  placed  them. 

"And  a  set  of  soldiers,  twenty-four  in  number,  with  a 
general  commanding,  to  go  beside  the  stilts."  He  poured 
them  into  the  boot. 

"And  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a  stocking  cap  to  go  on  top 
of  the  soldiers. 

"And  a  baseball  and  a  bat  to  go  on  top  of  the  gloves. 

"And  all  the  chinks  to  be  filled  up  with  nuts  and  figs, 
and  sweets.  Voila,  Pierre,"  and  with  these  words,  he 
had  poured  the  sweetmeats  in  overflowing  measure  into 
the  biggest  hip  boot  in  the  regiment. 

Amid  the  cheers  of  the  men,  led  by  big  Moriarity, 
Pierre  started  toward  his  seat,  struggling  with  the  seven 
league  boot  and  the  wholesale  booty,  and  satisfied  with 
the  realisation  that  in  one  haul  he  had  obtained  more 
than  his  companions  in  five. 

Company  B  quartet  sang  "Down  in  a  Coal  Hole,"  and 
then,  as  the  band  struck  up  outside  the  church,  all  moved 
to  the  street.  The  sun  had  gone  down,  the  early  winter 
night  had  set  in,  and  the  sky  was  almost  dark. 


282  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"Signal  for  the  barrage,"  came  the  command  in  the 
darkness. 

There  were  four  simultaneous  hisses  of  fire  and  four 
comets  of  flame  sprang  up  from  the  ground.  They  broke 
far  overhead  in  lurid  green. 

"Signal  for  enemy  planes  overhead,"  was  the  next 
command,  and  four  more  rockets  mounted  and  ended 
their  flights  in  balls  of  luminous  red.  Other  commands, 
other  signals,  other  rockets,  other  lights  and  flares  and 
pistol  star  shells,  enriched  a  pyrotechnical  display  which 
was  economically  combined  with  signal  practice. 

The  red  glare  illuminated  the  upturned  happy  faces  of 
American  and  French  together.  Our  men  learned  to  love 
the  French  people.    The  French  people  learned  to  love  us. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  283 

CHAPTER  XV 

CHATEAU-THIERRY    AND    THE    BOIS    DE    BELLEAU 

I  have  endeavoured  to  show  in  preceding  chapters  the 
development  of  the  young  American  army  in  France 
from  a  mere  handful  of  new  troops  up  to  the  creation  of 
units  capable  of  independent  action  on  the  front.  Only 
that  intense  and  thorough  training  made  it  possible  for 
our  oversea  forces  to  play  the  veteran  part  they  did  play 
in  the  great  Second  Battle  of  the  Marne. 

The  battle  developed  as  a  third  phase  of  the  enemy's 
Western  Front  offensives  of  the  year.  The  increasing 
strength  of  the  American  forces  overseas  forced  Ger- 
many to  put  forth  her  utmost  efforts  in  the  forlorn  hope 
of  gaining  a  decision  in  the  field  before  the  Allied  lines 
could  have  the  advantage  of  America's  weight. 

On  March  21st,  the  Germans  had  launched  their  first 
powerful  offensive  on  a  front  of  fifty  miles  from  Arras 
to  Noyon  in  Picardy  and  had  advanced  their  lines  from 
St.  Quentin  to  the  outskirts  of  Amiens. 

On  April  9th,  the  German  hordes  struck  again  in 
Flanders  on  a  front  of  twenty  miles  from  Lens  north- 
ward to  the  River  Lys  and  had  cut  into  the  Allied  front 
as  far  as  Armentieres. 

There  followed  what  was  considered  an  abnormal  de- 
lay in  the  third  act  of  the  demonstration.  It  was  known 
that  the  Germans  were  engaged  in  making  elaborate  ar- 
rangements for  this  mid-summer  push.  It  was  the  enemy 
hope  in  this  great  offensive  to  strike  a  final  effective  blow 
against  the  hard-pressed  Allied  line  before  America's  ris- 
ing power  could  be  thrown  into  the  fight. 


284  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

The  blow  fell  on  the  morning  of  May  27th.  The  front 
selected  for  the  assault  was  twenty-five  miles  in  width, 
extending  from  the  Ailette  near  Vauxaillon  to  the  Aisne- 
Marne  Canal  near  Brimont.  The  Prussian  Crown  Prince 
was  the  titular  chief  of  the  group  of  armies  used  in  the 
assault.  One  of  these  forces  was  the  army  of  General 
von  Boehm,  which  before  the  attack  had  numbered  only 
nine  divisions  and  had  extended  from  the  Oise  at  Noyon 
to  east  of  Craconne.  The  other  army  was  that  of  Gen- 
eral Fritz  von  Bulow,  previously  composed  of  eight  di- 
visions and  supporting  a  front  that  extended  from 
Craconne  across  the  Rheims  front  to  Suippe,  near  Au- 
berive.  On  the  day  of  the  attack,  these  armies  had  been 
strengthened  to  twice  their  normal  number  of  divisions, 
and  subsequently  captured  German  plans  revealed  that 
the  enemy  expected  to  use  forty-five  divisions  or  prac- 
tically half  a  million  men  in  the  onslaught. 

The  battle  began  at  dawn.  It  was  directed  against  the 
weakly  held  French  positions  on  the  Chemin  des  Dames. 
It  was  preceded  by  a  three  hour  bombardment  of  ter- 
rific intensity.  The  French  defenders  were  outnumbered 
four  to  one.  The  Germans  put  down  a  rolling  barrage 
that  was  two  miles  deep.  It  destroyed  all  wire  communi- 
cations and  flooded  battery  emplacements  and  machine 
gun  posts  with  every  brand  of  poison  gas  known  to  Ger- 
man kultur.  Dust  and  artificial  smoke  clouds  separated 
the  defenders  into  small  groups  and  screened  the  attack- 
ing waves  until  they  had  actually  penetrated  the  French 
positions. 

The  French  fought  hard  to  resist  the  enemy  flood 
across  the  Chemin  des  Dames  with  its  ground  sacred  with 
tragic  memories,  but  a  withdrawal  was  necessary.  The 
French  command  was  forced  to  order  a  retreat  to  the 
Aisne.     Hard-fighting  French  divisions  and  some  units 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  285 

of  the  British  Fifth  Army,  which  had  been  badly  hit  in 
Picardy  in  March,  made  an  orderly  withdrawal  south- 
ward. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  fight  the  enemy  made  a 
strong  thrust  toward  Soissons,  and  after  keeping  the  city 
under  continual  bombardment,  succeeded  in  overcoming 
all  resistance  and  occupying  the  city  on  May  29th.  On 
the  first  day  of  the  attack  alone,  twelve  thousand  ex- 
plosive, incendiary  and  poison  gas  shells  were  hurled  in 
amongst  the  hospitals  in  Soissons.  American  ambulance 
units  did  heroic  work  in  the  removal  of  the  wounded. 

The  Germans  forced  a  crossing  on  the  Aisne.  On  the 
following  day,  May  30th,  they  had  crossed  the  Vesle 
River  and  had  captured  Fere-en-Tardenois.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day  their  victorious  hordes  had  reached  the  Marne 
and  were  closing  in  on  Chateau-Thierry. 

Some  idea  of  the  terrific  strength  of  the  enemy  offen- 
sive may  be  gained  from  a  recapitulation  which  would 
show  that  in  five  days  the  Germans  had  pushed  through 
five  successive  lines  of  Allied  defence,  and  had  pene- 
trated more  than  twenty-five  miles.  On  the  first  day, 
they  had  captured  the  Chemin  des  Dames,  on  the  second 
day,  they  had  overcome  all  resistance  on  the  Aisne,  on 
the  third  day,  their  forces,  pushing  southward,  had 
crossed  the  Vesle  River,  on  the  fourth  day,  they  had 
destroyed  the  lines  of  resistance  along  the  Ourcq,  on  the 
fifth  day,  they  had  reached  the  Marne. 

It  was  a  crisis.  The  battle  front  formed  a  vast  triangle 
with  the  apex  pointing  southward  toward  Paris.  The 
west  side  of  the  triangle  extended  fifty  miles  northward 
from  the  Marne  to  the  Oise  near  Noyon.  The  east  side 
of  the  triangle  ran  north-eastward  thirty  miles  to  Rheims. 
The  point  of  this  new  thrust  at  Paris  rested  on  the  north 
bank  of  the  Marne  at  Chateau-Thierry.    The  enemy  had 


286  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

advanced  to  within  forty  miles  of  the  capital  of  France ; 
the  fate  of  the  Allied  world  hung  in  the  balance. 

Undoubtedly  I  am  prejudiced,  but  I  like  to  feel  that 
I  know  the  real  reason  why  the  German  hordes  stopped 
at  Chateau-Thierry  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Marne.  To 
me  that  reason  will  always  be  this — because  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  Marne  stood  the  Americans. 

On  that  day  and  in  that  event  there  materialised  the 
German  fears  which  had  urged  them  on  to  such  great 
speed  and  violence.  In  the  eleventh  hour,  there  at  the 
peak  of  the  German  thrust,  there  at  the  climax  of  Ger- 
many's triumphant  advances,  there  at  the  point  where  a 
military  decision  for  the  enemy  seemed  almost  within 
grasp,  there  and  then  the  American  soldier  stepped  into 
the  breech  to  save  the  democracy  of  the  world. 

The  Marne  River  makes  a  loop  at  this  place  and 
Chateau-Thierry  lies  on  both  banks.  The  Marne  there 
is  called  a  river,  but  it  would  hardly  come  up  to  the 
American  understanding  of  the  word.  The  waterway 
is  more  like  a  canal  with  banks  built  up  with  stone  blocks. 
There  are  streets  on  either  bank,  and  these  being  the 
principal  streets  of  the  town,  are  bordered  with  com- 
paratively high  buildings. 

While  the  Germans  were  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
American  forces  had  made  brilliant  counter  attacks  on 
both  sides.  To  the  west  of  Chateau-Thierry  the  Ger- 
man advance  forces,  seeking  to  penetrate  Neuilly  Wood, 
had  been  hurled  back  by  our  young  troops.  To  the  east 
of  Chateau-Thierry  the  enemy  had  succeeded  in  crossing 
the  Marne  in  the  vicinity  of  Jaulgonne. 

This  operation  was  carried  out  by  the  German  36th 
Division.  On  the  night  of  May  30th,  at  a  point  where 
the  Marne  looped  northward  eight  miles  to  the  east  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  287 

Chateau-Thierry,  the  enemy  succeeded  in  putting  a  few 
men  across  the  river. 

Along  the  south  bank  of  the  river  at  that  place,  the 
Paris-Chalons  ran  through  a  number  of  deep  cuts  and  one 
tunnel.  The  enemy  took  shelter  in  these  natural  pro- 
tections. They  suffered  serious  losses  from  the  Allied 
artillery  which  also  destroyed  some  of  their  pontoons 
across  the  river,  but  in  spite  of  this,  the  Germans  suc- 
ceeded in  re-enforcing  the  units  on  the  south  bank  to 
the  strength  of  about  a  battalion. 

Almost  at  the  same  time,  the  French  defenders  at  this 
place  received  re-enforcements  from  the  Americans. 
Units  of  the  3rd  United  States  Regular  Division  and  the 
28th  U.  S.  Division,  comprised  largely  of  Pennsylvania 
National  Guardsmen,  were  rushed  forward  from  training 
areas,  miles  back  of  the  line,  where  they  were  engaged  in 
fitting  themselves  for  line  duty.  These  incompletely 
trained  American  units  abandoned  their  bayonet-stabbing 
of  gunny-sacks  and  make-believe  warfare  to  rush  forward 
into  the  real  thing. 

On  June  2nd,  these  Americans,  under  command  of 
French  officers,  began  the  counter  attack  to  sweep  the 
Germans  back  from  the  south  bank.  By  that  time  the 
enemy  had  succeeded  in  putting  twenty-two  light  bridges 
across  the  Marne  and  had  established  a  strong  bridge- 
head position  with  a  number  of  machine  guns  and  a 
strong  force  of  men  in  the  railway  station  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  river  opposite  Jaulgonne. 

This  position  was  attacked  frontally  by  the  Americans 
and  French.  Our  novices  in  battle  were  guilty  of  nu- 
merous so-called  strategical  blunders,  but  in  the  main 
purpose  of  killing  the  enemy,  they  proved  irresistible. 
The  Germans  broke  and  ran.  At  the  same  time,  the 
French  artillery  lowered  a  terrific  barrage  on  the  bridges 


288  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

crossing  the  river,  with  the  result  that  many  of  the  flee- 
ing enemy  were  killed  and  more  drowned.  Only  thirty 
or  forty  escaped  by  swimming.  One  hundred  of  them 
threw  down  their  arms  and  surrendered.  The  remainder 
of  the  battalion  was  wiped  out.  At  the  close  of  the  en- 
gagement the  Americans  and  the  French  were  in  full 
command  of  the  south  bank. 

But  it  was  in  Chateau-Thierry  itself  that  the  Germans 
made  their  most  determined  effort  to  cross  the  river  and 
get  a  footing  on  the  south  bank,  and  it  was  there,  again, 
that  their  efforts  were  frustrated  by  our  forces.  On  May 
31st,  American  machine  gun  units,  then  in  training  sev- 
enty-five kilometres  south  of  the  Marne,  were  hurriedly 
bundled  into  motor  lorries  and  rushed  northward  into 
Chateau-Thierry. 

The  Germans  were  advancing  their  patrols  into  the 
north  side  of  the  city.  They  were  pouring  down  the 
streets  in  large  numbers,  with  the  evident  purpose  of 
crossing  the  bridges  and  establishing  themselves  on  the 
south  bank. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  May  31st  that 
those  American  machine  gunners  got  their  first  glimpse 
of  real  war.  That  night  while  the  German  artillery  raked 
the  south  bank  of  the  river  with  high  explosive  shells, 
those  Americans,  shouldering  their  machine  guns, 
marched  into  the  city  and  took  up  defensive  positions  on 
the  south  bank  of  the  river. 

During  the  night  many  houses  were  turned  into  ruins. 
Shells  striking  the  railroad  station  had  caused  it  to  burn. 
In  the  red  glare  our  men  saw  the  houses  about  them  col- 
lapse under  clouds  of  dust  and  debris.  Under  cover  of 
darkness  the  Germans  filtered  through  the  streets  on  the 
north  side  of  the  river.  The  American  machine  gunners 
went  into  position  in  the  windows  of  houses  on  the  south 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  289 

bank  and  in  gardens  between  the  houses,  and  from  these 
positions  it  was  possible  to  command  all  of  the  bridge 
approaches  and  streets  leading  to  the  river  on  the  opposite 
side. 

During  the  night,  Lieutenant  John  T.  Bissell,  a  young 
Pittsburgher  but  recently  graduated  from  West  Point, 
started  across  one  of  the  bridges  and  reached  the  north 
bank  with  a  squad  of  a  dozen  men  and  two  machine  guns. 
This  little  unit  went  into  position  in  a  place  commanding 
the  forked  highways  which  converged  not  far  from  the 
northern  approach  of  the  iron  bridge  crossing  the  river. 
It  was  this  unit's  function  to  prevent  the  enemy  advance 
from  this  direction.  The  unit  was  separated  from  its 
comrades  on  the  south  bank  by  the  river  and  about  two 
hundred  yards.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  enemy  ar- 
tillery intensified  its  shelling  of  the  south  bank,  the  Amer- 
ican machine  gunners  remained  at  their  posts  without 
firing  and  played  a  waiting  game. 

With  the  coming  of  dawn  the  Germans  began  to  make 
their  rushes  for  the  bridges.  Small  compact  forces  would 
dart  forward  carrying  light  machine  guns  and  ammuni- 
tion with  them.  They  encountered  a  terrific  burst  of 
American  fire  and  wilted  in  front  of  it.  Those  that  sur- 
vived crawled  back  to  the  shelter  of  protecting  walls, 
where  they  were  re-enforced  with  fresh  units,  and  again 
the  massed  formations  charged  down  the  streets  toward 
the  bridges.  The  slaughter  of  Germans  increased  until 
the  approaches  were  dotted  with  bodies  of  the  enemy 
slain. 

On  June  1st,  the  Germans  having  consolidated  posi- 
tions on  the  hills  commanding  the  city  from  the  north, 
they  directed  a  terrific  artillery  and  machine  gun  fire  into 
our  exposed  positions  on  the  south  bank,  as  well  as  the 
small  posts  still  held  on  the  north  bank  by  Lieutenant 


29o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Bissell  and  his  machine  gunners.  Although  the  position 
held  by  the  little  American  group  had  long  been  consid- 
ered untenable,  the  members  of  it  stuck  it  out  until  night- 
fall, when  they  received  orders  to  retire  to  the  south 
bank.  At  the  same  time,  French  colonials  which  had 
held  a  position  throughout  the  day  on  the  north  bank  on 
the  edge  of  the  town,  withdrew  in  accordance  with  the 
same  plan.  The  retirement  of  both  parties  was  covered 
by  our  machine  gunners  on  the  south  bank,  who  poured 
a  hot  fire  into  the  evacuated  areas  as  the  Germans  began 
occupying  them. 

By  10:30  that  night  the  completion  of  the  movement 
was  signalised  by  a  terrific  explosion,  as  the  French 
colonials  blew  up  one  of  the  stone  bridges  over  which 
they  had  withdrawn.  But  the  destruction  of  the  bridge 
had  cut  off  the  little  band  of  Americans  and  left  them 
almost  surrounded  by  the  enemy  on  the  north  bank  of 
the  river,  which  was  now  becoming  strongly  populated 
by  the  enemy.  Through  the  darkness  could  be  heard 
the  sound  of  shuffling,  hobnailed  boots,  and  even  above 
the  crack  of  the  guns  there  came  the  weird  swish  of 
the  grey  coats  as  they  pushed  forward  in  mass  forma- 
tions. 

The  little  party  of  thirteen  Americans  dismantled  their 
guns  and,  with  each  man  carrying  his  allotted  piece,  they 
began  working  their  way  along  the  river  bank  toward 
the  main  bridge,  where  they  discovered  that  the  enemy 
was  almost  upon  them.  They  immediately  went  into 
position  behind  the  stone  parapet  on  the  very  brink  of 
the  river,  and,  although  in  constant  danger  from  the 
American  fire  that  poured  out  from  the  south  bank,  they 
poured  streams  of  lead  point-blank  into  the  advancing 
German  ranks. 

The  Americans  on  the  south  bank  were  not  aware  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  291 

the  plight  of  the  little  party  on  the  north  bank.  In  spite 
of  their  losses,  the  Germans  continued  their  grewsome 
rushes  toward  the  approaches  of  the  iron  bridge  across 
which  our  machine  gunners  were  pouring  a  devastating 
fire.  Lieutenant  Bissell  and  his  men  made  one  effort  to 
cross  the  bridge,  but  were  forced  to  crawl  back  to  shelter 
on  the  north  bank,  carrying  with  them  three  of  their 
wounded.  They  found  themselves  between  a  cross-fire. 
Then  Bissell,  alone,  approached  as  near  as  he  dared,  and 
the  first  intimation  that  the  Americans  on  the  south  bank 
had  of  the  fact  that  Americans  were  in  front  of  them 
was  when  Lieutenant  Cobey  heard  Bissell's  voice  calling 
his  name.  A  cease  fire  order  was  immediately  given  and 
Bissell  and  his  men  rushed  across  the  bridge,  carrying 
their  wounded  with  them. 

On  the  following  day  the  Germans  were  in  occupation 
of  all  the  houses  facing  the  north  bank  of  the  river,  and 
could  be  seen  from  time  to  time  darting  from  one  shelter 
to  another.  Throughout  the  day  their  artillery  main- 
tained a  terrific  downpour  of  shells  on  the  positions  held 
by  our  men  on  the  south  bank.  So  intense  was  the  rifle 
fire  and  activity  of  snipers,  that  it  meant  death  to  appear 
in  the  open.  The  Americans  manned  their  guns  through- 
out the  day,  but  refrained  from  indulging  in  machine  gun 
fire  because  it  was  not  desired  to  reveal  the  locations 
of  the  guns.  Nightfall  approached  with  a  quiet  that  was 
deadly  ominous  of  impending  events. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  enemy  formations  lunged  forward 
to  the  attack.  Their  dense  masses  charged  down  the 
streets  leading  toward  the  river.  They  sang  as  they  ad- 
vanced. The  orders,  as  revealed  in  documents  captured 
later,  came  straight  from  the  high  command  and  de- 
manded the  acquisition  of  a  foothold  on  the  south  bank 


292  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

at  all  costs.  They  paid  the  costs,  but  never  reached  the 
south  bank. 

The  American  machine  gun  fire  was  withering.  Time 
after  time,  in  the  frequent  rushes  throughout  the  night, 
the  remnants  of  enemy  masses  would  reach  sometimes 
as  far  as  the  centre  of  the  big  bridge,  but  none  of  them 
succeeded  in  reaching  the  south  bank.  The  bridge  be- 
came carpeted  with  German  dead  and  wounded.  They 
lay  thick  in  the  open  streets  near  the  approaches.  By 
morning  their  dead  were  piled  high  on  the  bridge  and 
subsequent  rushes  endeavoured  to  advance  over  the 
bodies  of  their  fallen  comrades.  In  this  battle  of  the 
bridges  and  the  streets,  our  men  showed  a  courage  and 
determination  which  aroused  the  admiration  of  the 
French  officers,  who  were  aware  by  this  time  that  forty- 
eight  hours  before  these  same  American  soldiers  had  seen 
battle  for  the  first  time. 

Our  machine  gunners  turned  the  northern  bank  of  the 
river  into  a  No  Man's  Land.  Their  vigilance  was  un- 
relenting and  every  enemy  attempt  to  elude  it  met  with 
disaster.  There  were  serious  American  casualties  during 
that  terrific  fire,  but  they  were  nothing  in  comparison  with 
the  thousand  or  more  German  dead  that  dotted  the  streets 
and  clogged  the  runways  of  the  big  bridge  in  piles.  The 
last  night  of  the  fight  enormous  charges  of  explosive  were 
placed  beneath  the  bridge  and  discharged. 

The  bridge  was  destroyed.  High  into  the  air  were 
blown  bits  of  stone,  steel,  timber,  debris,  wreckage  and 
the  bodies  of  German  dead,  all  to  fall  back  into  the  river 
and  go  bobbing  up  and  down  in  the  waters  of  the  Marne. 

Thus  did  the  Americans  save  the  day  at  Chateau- 
Thierry,  but  it  became  immediately  necessary  for  the 
French  high  command  to  call  upon  our  young  forces  for 
another  great  effort.    In  response  to  this  call,  the  Second 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  293 

United  States  Division,  including  one  brigade  of  the 
United  States  Marines,  the  5th  and  6th  Regiments, 
started  for  the  front.  The  division  was  then  occupying 
support  positions  in  the  vicinity  of  Gisors  behind  the 
Picardy  line.  At  four  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  May 
31st  the  Marine  brigade  and  regiments  of  United  States 
infantry,  the  9th  and  the  23rd  Regulars,  boarded  camions, 
twenty  to  thirty  men  and  their  equipment  in  each  vehicle. 

They  were  bound  eastward  to  the  valley  of  the  Marne. 
The  road  took  them  through  the  string  of  pretty  villages 
fifteen  miles  to  the  north  of  Paris.  The  trucks  loaded 
with  United  States  troops  soon  became  part  of  the  end- 
less traffic  of  war  that  was  pouring  northward  and  east- 
ward toward  the  raging  front.  Our  men  soon  became 
coated  with  the  dust  of  the  road.  The  French  people  in 
the  villages  through  which  they  passed  at  top  speed 
cheered  them  and  threw  flowers  into  the  lorries. 

Between  Meaux  and  Chateau-Thierry,  where  the  road 
wound  along  the  Marne,  our  men  encountered  long 
trains  of  French  refugees,  weary  mothers  carrying  hun- 
gry babies  at  the  breast,  farm  wagons  loaded  with  house- 
hold belongings,  usually  surmounted  t^y  feather  mat- 
tresses on  which  rode  grey-haired  grandfathers  and 
grandmothers.  This  pitiful  procession  was  moving 
toward  the  rear  driving  before  it  flocks  of  geese  and 
herds  of  cattle.  On  the  other  side  of  the  road  war,  grim 
war,  moved  in  the  opposite  direction. 

The  Second  Division  was  bound  for  the  line  to  the 
northwest  of  Chateau-Thierry.  On  June  1st,  the  6th 
Marines  relieved  the  French  on  the  support  lines.  The 
sector  of  the  6th  Regiment  joined  on  the  left  the  sector 
held  by  two  battalions  of  the  5th.  The  line  on  the  right 
was  held  by  the  French.  On  June  2nd,  the  hard-pressed 
French  line,  weak  and  wearv  from  continual  rear  guard 


294  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

actions,  over  a  hard  fighting  period  of  almost  a  week, 
fell  back  by  prearranged  plan  and  passed  through  the 
support  positions  which  we  held.  To  fill  gaps  between 
units,  the  Marines  extended  their  brigade  sector  to  be- 
tween twelve  and  fourteen  kilometres.  As  the  French 
withdrew  to  the  rear,  hard  pressed  by  the  enemy,  the 
Marines  held  the  new  first  line. 

The  regimental  headquarters  of  the  6th  was  located 
in  a  stone  farmhouse  at  a  cross-roads  called  La  Voie 
Chatel,  situated  between  the  villages  of  Champillon  and 
Lucy-le-Bocage.  There  was  clear  observation  from  that 
point  toward  the  north.  At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
on  that  day  of  clear  visibility,  the  Germans  renewed  their 
attacks  from  the  north  and  northeast  toward  a  position 
called  Hill  165,  which  was  defended  by  the  5th  Regiment. 

The  Germans  advanced  in  two  solid  columns  across  a 
field  of  golden  wheat.  More  than  half  of  the  two  col- 
umns had  left  the  cover  of  the  trees  and  were  moving 
in  perfect  order  across  the  field  when  the  shrapnel  fire 
from  the  American  artillery  in  the  rear  got  range  on 
the  target.  Burst  after  burst  of  white  smoke  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  air  over  the  column,  and  under  each 
burst  the  ground  was  marked  with  a  circle  of  German 
dead.  It  was  not  barrage  fire:  it  was  individual  firing 
against  two  individual  moving  targets  and  its  success 
spoke  well  for  the  training  which  that  brigade  of  Ameri- 
can artillery  had  received. 

French  aviators  from  above  directed  the  fire  of  our 
guns,  and  from  high  in  the  air  signalled  down  their 
"bravos"  in  congratulation  on  the  excellent  work.  At 
the  same  time,  the  machine  gunners  of  the  5th  covered 
the  ravines  and  wooded  clumps  with  a  hot  fire  to  pre- 
vent small  bodies  of  the  enemy  from  infiltrating  through 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  295 

our  lines.  The  French  marvelled  at  the  deliberateness 
and  accuracy  of  our  riflemen. 

The  Germans,  unaware  that  a  change  had  taken 
place  in  the  personnel  that  faced  them,  reeled  back  de- 
moralised and  unable  to  understand  how  such  a  sudden 
show  of  resistance  had  been  presented  by  the  weakened 
French  troops  which  they  had  been  driving  before  them 
for  a  week.  The  enemy's  advance  had  been  made  openly 
and  confidently  in  the  mistaken  flush  of  victory.  Their 
triumphant  advances  of  the  previous  week  had  more  than 
supported  the  statements  of  the  German  officers,  who 
had  told  their  men  that  they  were  on  the  road  to  Paris — 
the  end  of  the  war  and  peace.  It  was  in  this  mood  of 
victory  that  the  enemy  encountered  the  Marines'  stone 
wall  and  reeled  back  in  surprise. 

That  engagement,  in  addition  to  lowering  the  enemy 
morale,  deprived  them  of  their  offensive  spirit  and  placed 
them  on  the  defensive.  The  next  few  days  were  spent 
in  advancing  small  strong  points  and  the  strengthening  of 
positions.  In  broad  daylight  one  group  of  Marines 
rushed  a  German  machine  gun  pit  in  the  open,  killed  or 
wounded  every  man  in  the  crew,  disabled  the  gun  and 
got  back  to  their  lines  in  safety. 

It  was  at  five  o'clock  on  the  bright  afternoon  of  June 
6th  that  the  United  States  Marines  began  to  carve  their 
way  into  history  in  the  battle  of  the  Bois  de  Belleau. 
Major  General  Harbord,  former  Chief  of  Staff  to  Gen- 
eral Pershing,  was  in  command  of  the  Marine  brigade. 
Orders  were  received  for  a  general  advance  on  the  brigade 
front.  The  main  objectives  were  the  eastern  edge  of  the 
Bois  de  Belleau  and  the  towns  of  Bussiares,  Torcy  and 
Bouresches. 

Owing  to  the  difficulty  of  liaison  in  the  thickets  of  the 
wood,  and  because  of  the  almost  impossible  task  of  di- 


296  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

recting  it  in  conjunction  with  the  advancing  lines,  the 
artillery  preparation  for  the  attack  was  necessarily  brief. 
At  five  o'clock  to  the  dot  the  Marines  moved  out  from 
the  woods  in  perfect  order,  and  started  across  the  wheat 
fields  in  four  long  waves.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  these 
men  of  ours  going  across  those  flat  fields  toward  the 
tree  clusters  beyond  from  which  the  Germans  poured 
a  murderous  machine  gun  fire. 

The  woods  were  impregnated  with  nests  of  machine 
guns,  but  our  advance  proved  irresistible.  Many  of  our 
men  fell,  but  those  that  survived  pushed  on  through  the 
woods,  bayoneting  right  and  left  and  firing  as  they 
charged.  So  sweeping  was  the  advance  that  in  some 
places  small  isolated  units  of  our  men  found  themselves 
with  Germans  both  before  and  behind  them. 

The  enemy  put  up  a  stubborn  resistance  on  the  left, 
and  it  was  not  until  later  in  the  evening  that  this  part  of 
the  line  reached  the  northeast  edge  of  the  woods,  after  it 
had  completely  surrounded  a  most  populous  machine  gun 
nest  which  was  located  on  a  rocky  hill.  During  the 
fighting  Colonel  Catlin  was  wounded  and  Captain  Las- 
pierre,  the  French  liaison  officer,  was  gassed,  two  casual- 
ties which  represented  a  distinct  blow  to  the  brigade,  but 
did  not  hinder  its  further  progress. 

On  the  right  Lieutenant  Robertson,  with  twenty  sur- 
vivors out  of  his  entire  platoon,  emerged  from  the  ter- 
rific enemy  barrage  and  took  the  town  of  Bouresches  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet.  Captain  Duncan,  receiving 
word  that  one  Marine  company,  with  a  determination  to 
engage  the  enemy  in  hand-to-hand  combat,  had  gone  two 
hundred  yards  in  advance,  raced  forward  on  the  double 
quick  with  the  96th  Marine  Company,  and  was  met  by  a 
terrific  machine  gun  barrage  from  both  sides  of  Bou- 
resches. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  297 

Lieutenant  Robertson,  looking  back,  saw  Duncan  and 
the  rest  of  his  company  going  down  like  flies  as  they 
charged  through  the  barrage.  He  saw  Lieutenant  Bow- 
ling get  up  from  the  ground,  his  face  white  with  pain, 
and  go  stumbling  ahead  with  a  bullet  in  his  shoulder. 
Duncan,  carrying  a  stick  and  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
was  mowed  down  in  the  rain  of  lead.  Robertson  saw 
Dental  Surgeon  Osborne  pick  Duncan  up.  With  the 
aid  of  a  Hospital  Corps  man,  they  had  just  gained  the 
shelter  of  some  trees  when  a  shell  wiped  all  three  of  them 
out. 

In  the  street  fighting  that  ensued  in  Bouresches,  Lieu- 
tenant Robertson's  orderly,  Private  Dunlavy,  who  was 
later  killed  in  the  defence  of  the  town,  captured  one  of 
the  enemy's  own  machine  guns  and  turned  it  against 
them. 

In  the  dense  woods  the  Germans  showed  their  mas- 
tery of  machine  gun  manipulation  and  the  method  of  in- 
filtration by  which  they  would  place  strong  units  in  our 
rear  and  pour  in  a  deadly  fire.  Many  of  these  guns  were 
located  on  rocky  ridges,  from  which  they  could  fire  to 
all  points.  These  Marines  worked  with  reckless  courage 
against  heavy  odds,  and  the  Germans  exacted  a  heavy 
toll  for  every  machine  gun  that  was  captured  or  disabled, 
but  in  spite  of  losses  the  Marine  advance  continued. 

Lieutenant  Overton,  commanding  the  76th  Company, 
made  a  brilliant  charge  against  a  strong  German  position 
at  the  top  of  a  rocky  hill.  He  and  his  men  captured  all 
of  the  guns  and  all  of  their  crews.  Overton  was  hit 
later  when  the  Germans  retaliated  by  a  concentration  of 
fire  against  the  captured  position  for  forty-eight  hours. 

Lieutenant  Robertson,  according  to  the  report  brought 
back  by  a  regimental  runner,  was  last  seen  flat  on  a  rock 
not  twenty  yards  away  from  one  enemy  gun,  at  which 


298  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

he  kept  shooting  with  an  automatic  in  each  hand.  He 
was  hit  three  times  before  he  consented  to  let  his  men 
carry  him  to  the  rear. 

"There  was  not  an  officer  left  in  the  82nd  Company," 
according  to  a  letter  by  Major  Frank  E.  Evans,  Adju- 
tant of  the  Sixth.  "Major  Sibley  and  his  Adjutant  re- 
organised them  under  close  fire  and  led  them  in  a  charge 
that  put  one  particular  machine  gun  nest  out  of  business 
at  the  most  critical  time  in  all  the  fighting.  I  heard  later 
that  at  that  stage  some  one  said :  'Major  Sibley  ordered 
that — '  and  another  man  said:  'Where  in  hell  is  Sibley?' 
Sibley  was  twenty  yards  away  at  that  time  and  a  hush 
went  down  the  line  when  they  saw  him  step  out  to  lead 
the  charge. 

"And  when  the  word  got  around  through  that  dead- 
tired,  crippled  outfit  that  'the  Old  Man'  was  on  the  line, 
all  hell  could  not  have  stopped  that  rush." 

In  such  fashion  did  the  Marines  go  through  the  Bois 
de  Belleau.  Their  losses  were  heavy,  but  they  did  the 
work.  The  sacrifice  was  necessary.  Paris  was  in  dan- 
ger. The  Marines  constituted  the  thin  line  between  the 
enemy  and  Paris.  The  Marines  not  only  held  that  line — 
they  pushed  it  forward. 

The  fighting  was  terrific.  In  one  battalion  alone  the 
casualties  numbered  sixty-four  per  cent,  officers  and 
sixty-four  per  cent.  men.  Several  companies  came  out 
of  the  fighting  under  command  of  their  first  sergeants,  all 
of  the  officers  having  been  killed  or  wounded. 

I  witnessed  some  of  that  fighting.  I  was  with  the 
Marines  at  the  opening  of  the  battle.  I  never  saw  men 
charge  to  their  death  with  finer  spirit.  I  am  sorry  that 
wounds  prevented  me  from  witnessing  the  victorious  con- 
clusion of  the  engagement.  In  view  of  my  subsequent 
absence  from  the  fight,  I  wish  to  give  credit  and  thanks 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  299 

at  this  place  to  Major  Frank  E.  Evans,  who  as  Adju- 
tant of  the  6th  Regiment  of  Marines,  provided  me  with 
much  of  the  foregoing  material  which  occurred  while 
I  was  in  the  hospital. 

The  bravery  of  that  Marine  brigade  in  the  Bois  de 
Belleau  fight  will  ever  remain  a  bright  chapter  in  the 
records  of  the  American  Army.  For  the  performance 
of  deeds  of  exceptional  valour,  more  than  a  hundred 
Marines  were  awarded  Distinguished  Service  Crosses. 
General  Pershing,  in  recognition  of  the  conduct  of  the 
Second  Division,  issued  the  following  order: 

"It  is  with  inexpressible  pride  and  satisfaction  that 
your  commander  recounts  your  glorious  deeds  on  the  field 
of  battle.  In  the  early  days  of  June  on  a  front  of  twenty 
kilometres,  after  night  marches  and  with  only  the  re- 
serve rations  which  you  carried,  you  stood  like  a  wall 
against  the  enemy  advance  on  Paris.  For  this  timely 
action  you  have  received  the  thanks  of  the  French  people 
whose  homes  you  saved  and  the  generous  praise  of  your 
comrades  in  arms. 

"Since  the  organisation  of  our  sector,  in  the  face  of 
strong  opposition,  you  have  advanced  your  lines  two 
kilometres  on  a  front  of  eight  kilometres.  You  have 
engaged  and  defeated  with  great  loss  three  German  di- 
visions and  have  occupied  important  strong  points — Bel- 
leau Wood,  Bouresches,  and  Vaux.  You  have  taken 
about  1,400  prisoners,  many  machine  guns,  and  much 
other  material.  The  complete  success  of  the  infantry 
was  made  possible  by  the  splendid  co-operation  of  the 
artillery,  by  the  aid  and  assistance  of  the  engineer  and 
signal  troops,  by  the  diligent  and  watchful  care  of  the 
medical  and  supply  services,  and  by  the  unceasing  work 


300  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

of  the  well-organised  staff.     All  elements  of  the  division 
have  worked  together  as  a  well-trained  machine. 

"Amid  the  dangers  and  trials  of  battle,  every  officer 
and  every  man  has  done  well  his  part.  Let  the  stirring 
deeds,  hardships,  and  sacrifices  of  the  past  month  re- 
main forever  a  bright  spot  in  our  history.  Let  the  sa- 
cred memory  of  our  fallen  comrades  spur  us  on  to  re- 
newed effort  and  to  the  glory  of  American  arms." 

All  of  the  German  prisoners  captured  by  the  Marines 
in  the  Bois  de  Belleau  could  express  only  surprise  over 
the  fighting  capacity  of  their  captors.  Prisoners'  state- 
ments are  not  entirely  trustworthy,  but  here  is  one  that 
was  not  intended  for  American  consumption.  It  was  writ- 
ten by  a  German  soldier,  who  was  killed  in  the  Bois  de 
Belleau  before  he  had  an  opportunity  to  mail  it.  It  was 
removed  from  his  body.     It  reads : 

"France,  June  21,  1918. 
"We  are  now  in  the  battle  zone  and  canteens  dare  not 
come  to  us  on  account  of  the  enemy,  for  the  Americans 
are  bombarding  the  villages  fifteen  kilometres  behind  the 
present  front  with  long-range  guns,  and  you  will  know 
that  the  canteen  outfit  and  the  others  who  are  lying  in 
reserve  do  not  venture  very  far,  for  it  is  not  'pleasant  to 
eat  cherries'  with  the  Americans.  The  reason  for  that 
is  that  they  have  not  yet  had  much  experience.  The 
American  divisions  are  still  too  fiery.  They  are  the  first 
divisions  that  the  French  have  entered.  .  .  .  We  will  also 
show  the  Americans  how  good  we  are,  for  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday  we  bombarded  them  heavily  with  our 
gas.  About  400  of  us  are  lying  around  here.  We  have 
one  corner  of  the  woods  and  the  American  has  the  other 
corner.     That  is  not  nice,  for  all  of  a  sudden  he  rushes 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  301 

forward  and  one  does  not  know  it  beforehand.  There- 
fore, one  must  shoot  at  every  little  noise,  for  one  cannot 
trust  them.  Here  always  two  men  have  dug  a  hold  for 
themselves.  Here  one  lies  day  and  night  without  a  blan- 
ket, only  with  a  coat  and  a  shelter-half.  One  freezes  at 
night  like  a  tailor,  for  the  nights  are  fiercely  cold.  I  hope 
that  I  will  be  lucky  enough  to  escape  from  this  horrible 
mess,  for  up  to  now  I  have  always  been  lucky.  Many  of 
my  comrades  are  already  buried  here.  The  enemy  sweeps 
every  evening  the  whole  countryside  with  machine  gun 
and  rifle  fire,  and  then  artillery  fire.  But  we  in  front  line 
are  safer  than  in  the  support  position.  At  present  our 
food  is  miserable.  We  are  now  fed  upon  dried  vegetables 
and  marmalade  and  when  at  night  we  obtain  more  food 
it  is  unpalatable.  It  is  half  sour  and  all  cold.  In  the 
daytime  we  receive  nothing." 

But  it  might  be  wise  to  support  this  statement  from  a 
German  soldier  in  the  ranks  by  excerpts  from  an  official 
German  army  report  which  was  captured  July  7th  on  a 
German  officer.  The  document  was  a  carefully  weighed 
treatise  on  the  fighting  capacity  of  the  United  States 
Marines.     The  document  had  the  following  heading: 

"Intelligence  Officer  of  the  Supreme  Command  at  Army 
Headquarters,  Number  7,  J.  Number  3,528,  Army 
Headquarters,  June  17,  1917. 

"Second  American  Infantry  Division. 

"Examination  of  Prisoners  from  the  5th,  6th,  gth  and 
23rd  Regiments,  captured  from  June  5th  to  14th,  in  the 
Bouresches  Sector." 

After  setting  forth  all  information  gained,  concerning 
the  purpose  of  attack  and  the  arrival  of  the  American 


3o2  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

units  on  the  line,  the  German  Intelligence  Report  con- 
tinues, as  follows: 

"The  Second  American  Division  may  be  classed  as  a 
very  good  division,  perhaps  even  as  assault  troops.  The 
various  attacks  of  both  regiments  on  Belleau  Wood  were 
carried  out  with  dash  and  recklessness.  The  moral  ef- 
fect of  our  firearms  did  not  materially  check  the  ad- 
vances of  the  enemy.  The  nerves  of  the  Americans  are 
still  unshaken. 

"Value  of  the  individual — the  individual  soldiers 
are  very  good  They  are  healthy,  vigorous,  and  physi- 
cally well-developed  men,  of  ages  ranging  from  eighteen 
to  twenty-eight,  who  at  present  lack  only  necessary  train- 
ing to  make  them  redoubtable  opponents.  The  troops 
are  fresh  and  full  of  straightforward  confidence.  A  re- 
mark of  one  of  the  prisoners  is  indicative  of  their  spirit : 
'We  kill  or  get  killed.' 

"Morale — the  prisoners  in  general  make  an  alert  and 
pleasing  impression.  Regarding  military  matters,  how- 
ever, they  do  not  show  the  slightest  interest.  Their  su- 
periors keep  them  purposely  without  knowledge  of  the 
military  subjects.  For  example,  most  of  them  have  never 
seen  a  map.  They  are  no  longer  able  to  describe  the  vil- 
lages and  roads  through  which  they  marched.  Their  idea 
of  the  organisation  of  their  unit  is  entirely  confused. 
For  example,  one  of  them  told  us  that  his  brigade  had 
six  regiments  and  his  division  twenty-four.  They  still 
regard  the  war  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  'big 
brother*  who  comes  to  help  his  hard-pressed  brethren 
and  is  therefore  welcomed  everywhere.  A  certain  moral 
background  is  not  lacking.  The  majority  of  the  prisoners 
simply  took  as  a  matter  of  course  that  they  have  come 
to  Europe  to  defend  their  country. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  303 

"Only  a  few  of  the  troops  are  of  pure  American  or- 
igin;  the  majority  is  of  German,  Dutch  and  Italian  par- 
entage, but  these  semi-Americans,  almost  all  of  whom 
were  born  in  America  and  never  have  been  in  Europe  be- 
fore, fully  feel  themselves  to  be  true  born  sons  of  their 
country. 

(Signed)     "Vox  Berg, 
"Lieutenant  and  Intelligence  Officer." 

Since  the  days  I  read  Hugo's  chapters  on  the  Battle 
of  Waterloo  in  "Les  Miserables,"  I  always  considered  as 
an  ideal  of  fighting  capacity  and  the  military  spirit  of 
sacrifice  the  old  sergeant  of  Napoleon's  Old  Guard. 
Hugo  made  me  vividly  see  that  old  sergeant  standing  on 
a  field  with  a  meagre  remnant  of  the  Old  Guard  gathered 
around  him.  Unable  to  resist  further,  but  unwilling  to 
accept  surrender,  he  and  his  followers  faced  the  British 
cannon.  The  British,  respecting  this  admirable  demon- 
stration of  courage,  ceased  firing  and  called  out  to  them, 
"Brave  Frenchmen,  surrender." 

The  old  sergeant,  who  was  about  to  die,  refused  to  ac- 
cept this  offer  of  his  life  from  the  enemy.  Into  the 
very  muzzles  of  the  British  cannon  the  sergeant  hurled 
back  the  offer  of  his  life  with  one  word.  That  word 
was  the  vilest  epithet  in  the  French  language.  The  can- 
nons roared  and  the  old  sergeant  and  his  survivors  died 
with  the  word  on  their  lips.  Hugo  wisely  devoted  an 
entire  chapter  to  that  single  word. 

But  I  have  a  new  ideal  to-day.  I  found  it  in  the  Bois 
de  Belleau.  A  small  platoon  line  of  Marines  lay  on  their 
faces  and  bellies  under  the  trees  at  the  edge  of  a  wheat 
field.  Two  hundred  yards  across  that  flat  field  the  enemy 
was  located  in  trees.  I  peered  into  the  trees  but  could 
see  nothing,  yet  I  knew  that  every  leaf  in  the  foliage 


304  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

screened  scores  of  German  machine  guns  that  swept  the 
field  with  lead.  The  bullets  nipped  the  tops  of  the  young 
wheat  and  ripped  the  bark  from  the  trunks  of  the  trees 
three  feet  from  the  ground  on  which  the  Marines  lay. 
The  minute  for  the  Marine  advance  was  approaching. 
An  old  gunnery  sergeant  commanded  the  platoon  in  the 
absence  of  the  lieutenant,  who  had  been  shot  and  was  out 
of  the  fight.  This  old  sergeant  was  a  Marine  veteran. 
His  cheeks  were  bronzed  with  the  wind  and  sun  of  the 
seven  seas.  The  service  bar  across  his  left  breast  showed 
that  he  had  fought  in  the  Philippines,  in  Santo  Domingo, 
at  the  walls  of  Pekin,  and  in  the  streets  of  Vera  Cruz. 
I  make  no  apologies  for  his  language.  Even  if  Hugo 
were  not  my  precedent,  I  would  make  no  apologies.  To 
me  his  words  were  classic,  if  not  sacred. 

As  the  minute  for  the  advance  arrived,  he  arose  from 
the  trees  first  and  jumped  out  onto  the  exposed  edge  of 
that  field  that  ran  with  lead,  across  which  he  and  his 
men  were  to  charge.  Then  he  turned  to  give  the  charge 
order  to  the  men  of  his  platoon — his  mates — the  men  he 
loved.     He  said : 

"Come  on,  you  sons-o'-bitches  !  do  you  want  to 
live  forever?" 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  305 

CHAPTER  XVI 

WOUNDED — HOW    IT   FEELS   TO   BE   SHOT 

Just  how  does  it  feel  to  be  shot  on  the  field  of  bat- 
tle? Just  what  is  the  exact  sensation  when  a  bullet 
burns  its  way  through  your  flesh  or  crashes  through  your 
bones? 

I  always  wanted  to  know.  As  a  police  reporter  I 
"covered"  scores  of  shooting  cases,  but  I  could  never 
learn  from  the  victims  what  the  precise  feeling  was  as 
the  piece  of  lead  struck.  For  long  years  I  had  cherished 
an  inordinate  curiosity  to  know  that  sensation,  if  pos- 
sible, without  experiencing  it.  I  was  curious  and  eager 
for  enlightenment  just  as  I  am  still  anxious  to  know  how 
it  is  that  some  people  willingly  drink  buttermilk  when  it 
isn't  compulsory. 

I  am  still  in  the  dark  concerning  the  inexplicable  taste 
for  the  sour,  clotted  product  of  a  sweet,  well-meaning 
cow  and  the  buttery,  but  I  have  found  out  how  it  feels  to 
be  shot.     I  know  it  now  by  experience. 

Three  Germans  bullets  that  violated  my  person  left 
me  as  many  scars  and  at  the  same  time  completely  satis- 
fied my  curiosity.  I  think  now  if  I  can  ever  muster  up 
enough  courage  to  drink  a  glass  of  buttermilk,  I  shall 
have  bereft  myself  of  my  last  inquisitiveness. 

It  happened  on  June  6th  just  to  the  northwest  of 
Chateau-Thierry  in  the  Bois  de  Belleau.  On  the  morning 
of  that  day  I  left  Paris  by  motor  for  a  rush  to  the  front. 
The  Germans  were  on  that  day  within  forty  miles  of  the 
capital  of  France.     On  the  night  before,  the  citizens  of 


3o6 "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Paris,  in  their  homes  and  hotels,  had  heard  the  roll  of  the 
guns  drawing  ever  nearer.    Many  had  left  the  city. 

But  American  divisions  were  in  the  line  between  the 
enemy  and  their  goal,  and  the  operation  of  these  divisions 
was  my  object  in  hustling  to  the  front.  On  the  broad, 
paved  highway  from  Paris  to  Meaux,  my  car  passed  miles 
and  miles  of  loaded  motor  trucks  bound  frontward.  Long 
lines  of  these  carried  thousands  of  Americans.  Other 
long  lines  were  loaded  down  with  shells  and  cartridge 
boxes.  On  the  right  side  of  the  road,  bound  for  Paris 
and  points  back  of  the  line,  was  an  endless  stream  of 
ambulances  and  other  motor  trucks  bringing  back 
wounded.  Dense  clouds  of  dust  hung  like  a  pall  over 
the  length  of  the  road.  The  day  was  hot,  the  dust  was 
stifling. 

From  Meaux  we  proceeded  along  the  straight  highway 
that  borders  the  south  banks  of  the  Marne  to  LaFerte, 
at  which  place  we  crossed  the  river  and  turned  north  to 
Montreuil,  which  was  the  newly  occupied  headquarters 
of  the  Second  United  States  Army  Division,  General 
Omar  Bundy  commanding.  On  the  day  before,  the  two 
infantry  brigades  of  that  division,  one  composed  of  the 
5th  and  6th  U.  S.  Marines,  under  command  of  Brigadier 
General  Harbord,  the  other  composed  of  the  9th  and 
23rd  U.  S.  Infantry,  had  been  thrown  into  the  line  which 
was  just  four  miles  to  the  north  and  east. 

The  fight  had  been  hot  during  the  morning.  The 
Marines  on  the  left  flank  of  the  divisional  sector  had 
been  pushing  their  lines  forward  through  triangle  woods 
and  the  village  of  Lucy-le-Bocage.  The  information  of 
their  advances  was  given  to  me  by  the  Divisional  In- 
telligence officer,  who  occupied  a  large  room  in  the  rear 
of  the  building  that  was  used  as  Divisional  Headquarters. 
The  building  was  the  village  Mairie,  which  also  included 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  307 

the  village  school-house.  Now  the  desks  of  the  school 
children  were  being  used  by  our  staff  officers  and  the 
walls  and  blackboards  were  covered  with  maps. 

I  was  accompanied  by  Lieutenant  Oscar  Hartzell,  for- 
merly of  the  New  York  Times  staff.  We  learned  that 
orders  from  the  French  High  Command  called  for  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  Marine  advance  during  the  afternoon 
and  evening,  and  this  information  made  it  possible  for 
us  to  make  our  plans.  Although  the  Germans  were 
shelling  roads  immediately  behind  the  front,  Lieutenant 
Hartzell  and  I  agreed  to  proceed  by  motor  from  Mon- 
treuil  a  mile  or  so  to  a  place  called  La  Voie  du  Chatel, 
which  was  the  headquarters  of  Colonel  Neveille  of  the 
5th  Marines.  Reaching  that  place  around  four  o'clock, 
we  turned  a  despatch  over  to  the  driver  of  our  staff  car 
with  instructions  that  he  proceed  with  all  haste  to  Paris 
and  there  submit  it  to  the  U.  S.  Press  Bureau. 

Lieutenant  Hartzell  and  I  announced  our  intentions  of 
proceeding  at  once  to  the  front  line  to  Colonel  Neveille. 

"Go  wherever  you  like,"  said  the  regimental  com- 
mander, looking  up  from  the  outspread  maps  on  the 
kitchen  table  in  the  low-ceilinged  stone  farm-house  that 
he  had  adopted  as  headquarters.  "Go  as  far  as  you  like, 
but  I  want  to  tell  you  it's  damn  hot  up  there." 

An  hour  later  found  us  in  the  woods  to  the  west  of 
the  village  of  Lucy  le  Bocage,  in  which  German  shells 
were  continually  falling.  To  the  west  and  north  another 
nameless  cluster  of  farm  dwellings  was  in  flames.  Huge 
clouds  of  smoke  rolled  up  like  a  smudge  against  the 
background  of  blue  sky. 

The  ground  under  the  trees  in  the  wood  was  covered 
with  small  bits  of  white  paper.  I  could  not  account  for 
their  presence  until  I  examined  several  of  them  and  found 
that  these  were  letters  from  American  mothers  and  wives 


308  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  sweethearts — letters — whole  packages  of  them, 
which  the  tired,  dog-weary  Marines  had  been  forced  to 
remove  from  their  packs  and  destroy  in  order  to  ease  the 
straps  that  cut  into  aching  grooves  in  their  shoulders. 
Circumstances  also  forced  the  abandonment  of  much  other 
material  and  equipment. 

Occasional  shells  were  dropping  in  the  woods,  which 
were  also  within  range  from  a  long  distance,  indirect  ma- 
chine gun  fire  from  the  enemy.  Bits  of  lead,  wobbling  in 
their  flight  at  the  end  of  their  long  trajectory,  sung 
through  the  air  above  our  heads  and  clipped  leaves  and 
twigs  from  the  branches.  On  the  edge  of  the  woods  we 
came  upon  a  hastily  dug  out  pit  in  which  there  were 
two  American  machine  guns  and  their  crews. 

The  field  in  front  of  the  woods  sloped  gently  down 
some  two  hundred  yards  to  another  cluster  of  trees. 
This  cluster  was  almost  as  big  as  the  one  we  were  in. 
Part  of  it  was  occupied  by  the  Germans.  Our  machine 
gunners  maintained  a  continual  fire  into  that  part  held 
by  the  enemy. 

Five  minutes  before  five  o'clock,  the  order  for  the 
advance  reached  our  pit.  It  was  brought  there  by  a 
second  lieutenant,  a  platoon  commander. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked,  looking  at  the 
green  brassard  and  red  "C"  on  my  left  arm. 

"Looking  for  the  big  story,"  I  said. 

"If  I  were  you  I'd  be  about  forty  miles  south  of  this 
place,"  said  the  Lieutenant,  "but  if  you  want  to  see  the 
fun,  stick  around.  We  are  going  forward  in  five 
minutes." 

That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  him  until  days  later,  when 
both  of  us,  wounded,  met  in  the  hospital.  Of  course,  the 
first  thing  he  said  was,  "I  told  you  so." 

We  hurriedly  finished  the  contents  of  the  can  of  cold 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  309 

"Corned  Willy"  which  one  of  the  machine  gunners  and 
I  were  eating.  The  machine  guns  were  taken  down 
and  the  barrels,  cradles  and  tripods  were  handed  over  to 
the  members  of  the  crew  whose  duties  it  was  to  carry 
them. 

And  then  we  went  over.  There  are  really  no  heroics 
about  it.  There  is  no  bugle  call,  no  sword  waving,  no 
dramatic  enunciation  of  catchy  commands,  no  theatrical- 
ism — it's  just  plain  get  up  and  go  over.  And  it  is  done 
just  the  same  as  one  would  walk  across  a  peaceful  wheat 
field  out  in  Iowa. 

But  with  the  appearance  of  our  first  line,  as  it  stepped 
from  the  shelter  of  the  woods  into  the  open  exposure  of 
the  flat  field,  the  woods  opposite  began  to  cackle  and  rat- 
tle with  the  enemy  machine  gun  fire.  Our  men  advanced 
in  open  order,  ten  and  twelve  feet  between  men.  Some- 
times a  squad  would  run  forward  fifty  feet  and  drop. 
And  as  its  members  flattened  on  the  ground  for  safety 
another  squad  would  rise  from  the  ground  and  make 
another  rush. 

They  gained  the  woods.  Then  we  could  hear  shouting. 
Then  we  knew  that  work  was  being  done  with  the  bayo- 
net. The  machine  gun  fire  continued  in  intensity  and 
then  died  down  completely.  The  wood  had  been  won. 
Our  men  consolidated  the  position  by  moving  forward  in 
groups  ever  on  the  watch-out  for  snipers  in  the  trees. 
A  number  of  these  were  brought  down  by  our  crack  pistol 
shots. 

At  different  times  during  the  advance  runners  had  come 
through  the  woods  inquiring  for  Major  John  Berry,  the 
battalion  commander.  One  of  these  runners  attached 
himself  to  Lieutenant  Llartzell  and  myself  and  together 
the  three  of  us  located  the  Major  coming  through  the 
woods.     He  granted  permission  for  Lieutenant  Hartzell 


310  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  me  to  accompany  him  and  we  started  forward,  in  all 
a  party  of  some  fifteen,  including  ten  runners  attached 
to  the  battalion  commander. 

Owing  to  the  continual  evidences  of  German  snipers 
in  the  trees,  every  one  in  our  party  carried  a  revolver 
ready  in  his  hand,  with  the  exception  of  myself.  Cor- 
respondents, you  will  remember,  are  non-combatants  and 
must  be  unarmed.  I  carried  a  notebook,  but  it  was  loaded. 
We  made  our  way  down  the  slope  of  the  wooded  hillside. 

Midway  down  the  slope,  the  hill  was  bisected  by  a 
sunken  road  which  turned  forward  on  the  left.  Lying 
in  the  road  were  a  number  of  French  bodies  and  several 
of  our  men  who  had  been  brought  down  but  five  minutes 
before.  We  crossed  that  road  hurriedly  knowing  that  it 
was  covered  from  the  left  by  German  machine  guns. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  slope  there  was  a  V-shaped  field. 
The  apex  of  the  V  was  on  the  left.  From  left  to  right 
the  field  was  some  two  hundred  yards  in  width.  The 
point  where  we  came  out  of  the  woods  was  about  one 
hundred  yards  from  the  apex.  At  that  point  the  field  was 
about  one  hundred  yards  across.  It  was  perfectly  flat  and 
was  covered  with  a  young  crop  of  oats  between  ten  and 
fifteen  inches  high. 

This  V-shaped  oat  field  was  bordered  on  all  sides  by 
dense  clusters  of  trees.  In  the  trees  on  the  side  oppo- 
site the  side  on  which  we  stood,  were  German  machine 
guns.  We  could  hear  them.  We  could  not  see  them  but 
we  knew  that  every  leaf  and  piece  of  greenery  there  vi- 
brated from  their  fire  and  the  tops  of  the  young  oats 
waved  and  swayed  with  the  streams  of  lead  that  swept 
across. 

Major  Berry  gave  orders  for  us  to  follow  him  at  inter- 
vals of  ten  or  fifteen  yards.  Then  he  started  across  the 
field  alone  at  the  head  of  the  party.     I  followed.     Be- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  311 

hind  me  came  Hartzell.  Then  the  woods  about  us  began 
to  rattle  fiercely.  It  was  unusually  close  range.  That 
lead  travelled  so  fast  that  we  could  not  hear  it  as  it 
passed.  We  soon  had  visual  demonstration  of  the  hot 
place  we  were  in  when  we  began  to  see  the  dust  puffs 
that  the  bullets  kicked  up  in  the  dirt  around  our  feet. 

Major  Berry  had  advanced  well  beyond  the  centre  of 
the  field  when  I  saw  him  turn  toward  me  and  heard  him 
shout : 

"Get  down  everybody." 

We  all  fell  on  our  faces.  And  then  it  began  to  come 
hot  and  fast.  Perfectly  withering  volleys  of  lead  swept 
the  tops  of  the  oats  just  over  us.  For  some  reason  it 
did  not  seem  to  be  coming  from  the  trees  hardly  a  hun- 
dred yards  in  front  of  us.  It  was  coming  from  a  new 
direction — from  the  left. 

I  was  busily  engaged  flattening  myself  on  the  ground. 
Then  I  heard  a  shout  in  front  of  me.  It  came  from  Major 
Berrv.  I  lifted  my  head  cautiously  and  looked  forward. 
The  Major  was  making  an  effort  to  get  to  his  feet.  With 
his  right  hand  he  was  savagely  grasping  his  left  wrist. 

"My  hand's  gone,"  he  shouted.  One  of  the  streams  of 
lead  from  the  left  had  found  him.  A  ball  had  entered 
his  left  arm  at  the  elbow,  had  travelled  down  the  side 
of  the  bone,  tearing  away  muscles  and  nerves  of  the  fore- 
arm and  lodging  itself  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  His  pain 
was  excruciating. 

"Get  down.  Flatten  out,  Major,"  I  shouted,  and  he 
dropped  to  the  ground.  I  did  not  know  the  extent  of  his 
injuries  at  that  time  but  I  did  know  that  he  was  courting 
death  every  minute  he  stood  up. 

"We've  got  to  get  out  of  here,"  said  the  Major.  "We've 
got  to  get  forward.  They'll  start  shelling  this  open  field 
in  a  few  minutes." 


3i2  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

I  lifted  my  head  for  another  cautious  look. 

I  judged  that  I  was  lying  about  thirty  yards  from  the 
edge  of  the  trees  in  front  of  us.  The  Major  was  about 
ten  yards  in  front  of  me. 

"You  are  twenty  yards  from  the  trees,"  I  shouted  to 
the  Major.  "I  am  crawling  over  to  you  now.  Wait  un- 
til I  get  there  and  I'll  help  you.  Then  we'll  get  up  and 
make  a  dash  for  it." 

"All  right,"  replied  the  Major,  "hurry  along." 

I  started  forward,  keeping  as  flat  on  the  ground  as  it 
was  possible  to  do  so  and  at  the  same  time  move.  As  far 
as  was  feasible,  I  pushed  forward  by  digging  in  with  my 
toes  and  elbows  extended  in  front  of  me.  It  was  my 
object  to  make  as  little  movement  in  the  oats  as  possible. 
I  was  not  mistaken  about  the  intensity  of  fire  that  swept 
the  field.    It  was  terrific. 

And  then  it  happened.  The  lighted  end  of  a  cigarette 
touched  me  in  the  fleshy  part  of  my  upper  left  arm.  That 
was  all.  It  just  felt  like  a  sudden  burn  and  nothing  worse. 
The  burned  part  did  not  seem  to  be  any  larger  in  area 
than  that  part  which  could  be  burned  by  the  lighted  end 
of  a  cigarette. 

At  the  time  there  was  no  feeling  within  the  arm, 
that  is,  no  feeling  as  to  aches  or  pain.  There  was  nothing 
to  indicate  that  the  bullet,  as  I  learned  several  days  later, 
had  gone  through  the  bicep  muscle  of  the  upper  arm 
and  had  come  out  on  the  other  side.  The  only  sensation 
perceptible  at  the  time  was  the  burning  touch  at  the  spot 
where  the  bullet  entered. 

I  glanced  down  at  the  sleeve  of  my  uniformed  coat  and 
could  not  even  see  the  hole  where  the  bullet  had  entered. 
Neither  was  there  any  sudden  flow  of  blood.  At  the  time 
there  was  no  stiffness  or  discomfort  in  the  arm  and  I 
continued  to  use  it  to  work  my  way  forward. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  313 

Then  the  second  one  hit.  It  nicked  the  top  of  my  left 
shoulder.  And  again  came  the  burning  sensation,  only 
this  time  the  area  affected  seemed  larger.  Hitting  as  it 
did  in  the  meaty  cap  of  the  shoulder,  I  feared  that  there 
would  be  no  further  use  for  the  arm  until  it  had  received 
attention,  but  again  I  was  surprised  when  I  found  upon 
experiment  that  I  could  still  use  it.  The  bone  seemed  to 
be  affected  in  no  way. 

Again  there  was  no  sudden  flow  of  blood,  nor  stiffness. 
It  seemed  hard  for  me  to  believe  at  the  time,  but  I  had 
been  shot  twice,  penetrated  through  by  two  bullets  and 
was  experiencing  not  any  more  pain  than  I  had  experi- 
enced once  when  I  dropped  a  lighted  cigarette  on  the 
back  of  my  hand.  I  am  certain  that  the  pain  in  no  way 
approached  that  sensation  which  the  dentist  provides 
when  he  drills  into  a  tooth  with  a  live  nerve  in  it. 

So  I  continued  to  move  toward  the  Major.  Occa- 
sionally I  would  shout  something  to  him,  although,  at  this 
time,  I  am  unable  to  remember  what  it  was.  I  only 
wanted  to  let  him  know  I  was  coming.  I  had  fears,  based 
on  the  one  look  that  I  had  obtained  of  his  pain-distorted 
face,  that  he  had  been  mortally  shot  in  the  body. 

And  then  the  third  one  struck  me.  In  order  to  keep  as 
close  to  the  ground  as  possible,  I  had  swung  my  chin 
to  the  right  so  that  I  was  pushing  forward  with  my  left 
cheek  flat  against  the  ground  and  in  order  to  accommodate 
this  position  of  the  head,  I  had  moved  my  steel  helmet 
over  so  that  it  covered  part  of  my  face  on  the  right. 

Then  there  came  a  crash.  It  sounded  to  me  like  some 
one  had  dropped  a  glass  bottle  into  a  porcelain  bathtub. 
A  barrel  of  whitewash  tipped  over  and  it  seemed  that 
everything  in  the  world  turned  white.  That  was  the  sen- 
sation.   I  did  not  recognise  it  because  I  have  often  been 


3H  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

led  to  believe  and  often  heard  it  said  that  when  one  re- 
ceives a  blow  on  the  head  everything  turns  black. 

Maybe  I  am  contrarily  constructed,  but  in  my  case 
everything  became  pure  white.  I  remember  this  dis- 
tinctly because  my  years  of  newspaper  training  had  been 
in  but  one  direction — to  sense  and  remember.  So  it 
was  that,  even  without  knowing  it,  my  mind  was  making 
mental  notes  on  every  impression  that  my  senses  regis- 
tered. 

I  did  not  know  yet  where  I  had  been  hit  or  what  the 
bullet  had  done.  I  knew  that  I  was  still  knowing  things. 
I  did  not  know  whether  I  was  alive  or  dead  but  I  did 
know  that  my  mind  was  still  working.  I  was  still  men- 
tally taking  notes  on  every  second. 

The  first  recess  in  that  note-taking  came  when  I  asked 
myself  the  following  question : 

"Am  I  dead?" 

I  didn't  laugh  or  didn't  even  smile  when  I  asked  my- 
self the  question  without  putting  it  in  words.  I  wanted 
to  know.  And  wanting  to  know,  I  undertook  to  find  out. 
I  am  not  aware  now  that  there  was  any  appreciable 
passage  of  time  during  this  mental  progress.  I  feel  cer- 
tain, however,  that  I  never  lost  consciousness. 

How  was  I  to  find  out  if  I  was  dead?  The  shock  had 
{fted  my  head  off  the  ground  but  I  had  immediately 
replaced  it  as  close  to  the  soil  as  possible.  My  twice 
punctured  left  arm  was  lying  alongside  my  body.  I 
decided  to  try  and  move  my  fingers  on  my  left  hand.  I 
lid  so  and  they  moved.  I  next  moved  my  left  foot.  Then 
?  knew  I  was  alive. 

Then  I  brought  my  right  hand  up  toward  my  face 
and  placed  it  to  the  left  of  my  nose.  My  fingers  rested 
an  something  soft  and  wet.  I  withdrew  the  hand  and 
looked  at  it.     It  was  covered  with  blood.     As  I  looked 


III'!. MET    WORN    BY    FLOYD  GIBBONS    WHEN     WOUNDED,   SHOWING 
DAM  u.l    CAUSED  BY   SHRAPNEL 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  315 

at  it,  I  was  not  aware  that  my  entire  vision  was  confined 
to  my  right  eye,  although  there  was  considerable  pain  in 
the  entire  left  side  of  my  face. 

This  was  sufficient  to  send  me  on  another  mental  inves- 
tigation. I  closed  my  right  eye  and — all  was  dark.  My 
first  thought  following  this  experiment  was  that  my  left 
eye  was  closed.  So  I  again  counselled  with  myself  and 
tried  to  open  my  left  eye — that  is,  tried  to  give  the  mental 
command  that  would  cause  the  muscles  of  the  left  eye 
to  open  the  lid  and  close  it  again. 

I  did  this  but  could  not  feel  or  verify  in  any  way 
whether  the  eye  lid  responded  or  not.  I  only  knew  that 
it  remained  dark  on  that  side.  This  brought  me  to  an- 
other conclusion  and  not  a  pessimistic  one  at  that.  I 
simply  believed,  in  spite  of  the  pain,  that  something  had 
struck  me  in  the  eye  and  had  closed  it. 

I  did  not  know  then,  as  I  know  now,  that  a  bullet  strik- 
ing the  ground  immediately  under  my  left  cheek  bone, 
had  ricochetted  upward,  going  completely  through  the 
left  eye  and  then  crashing  out  through  my  forehead, 
leaving  the  eyeball  and  upper  eyelid  completely  halved, 
the  lower  eyelid  torn  away,  and  a  compound  fracture  of 
the  skull. 

Further  progress  toward  the  Major  was  impossible. 
I  must  confess  that  I  became  so  intensely  interested  in  the 
weird  sensations  and  subjective  research,  that  I  even 
neglected  to  call  out  and  tell  the  wounded  officer  that  I 
would  not  be  able  to  continue  to  his  assistance.  I  held 
this  view  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  my  original  intentions 
were  strong.  Lying  there  with  my  left  cheek  flat  on  the 
ground,  I  was  able  to  observe  some  minutes  later  the 
wounded  Major  rise  to  his  feet  and  in  a  perfect  hail  of 
lead  rush  forward  and  out  of  my  line  of  vision. 

It  was  several  days  later,  in  the  hospital,  that  I  learned 


316  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

that  he  reached  the  shelter  of  the  woods  beyond  without 
being  hit  again,  and  in  that  place,  although  suffering 
intense  pain,  was  able  to  shout  back  orders  which  resulted 
in  the  subsequent  wiping  out  of  the  machine  gun  nest 
that  had  been  our  undoing.  For  this  supreme  effort, 
General  Pershing  decorated  him  with  the  Distinguished 
Service  Cross. 

I  began  to  make  plans  to  get  out  of  the  exposed  posi- 
tion in  which  I  was  lying.  Whereas  the  field  when  I 
started  across  it  had  seemed  perfectly  flat,  now  it  im- 
pressed me  as  being  convex  and  I  was  further  impressed 
with  the  belief  that  I  was  lying  on  the  very  uppermost 
and  most  exposed  curvature  of  it.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  the  continued  stream  of  machine  gun  lead  that  swept 
the  field  superinduced  this  belief.  I  got  as  close  to  the 
ground  as  a  piece  of  paper  on  top  of  a  table.  I  remember 
regretting  sincerely  that  the  war  had  reached  the  stage 
of  open  movement  and  one  consequence  of  which  was 
that  there  wasn't  a  shell  hole  anywhere  to  crawl  into. 

This  did  not,  however,  eliminate  the  dangerous  pos- 
sibility of  shelling.  With  the  fatalism  that  one  acquires 
along  the  fronts,  I  was  ready  to  take  my  chances  with  the 
casual  German  shell  that  one  might  have  expected,  but  I 
devoted  much  thought  to  a  consideration  of  the  French 
and  American  artillery  some  miles  behind  me.  I  con- 
sidered the  possibility  of  word  having  been  sent  back 
that  our  advancing  waves  at  this  point  had  been  cut  down 
by  enemy  machine  gunners  who  were  still  in  position 
preventing  all  progress  at  this  place.  I  knew  that  such 
information,  if  sent  back,  would  immediately  be  for- 
warded to  our  guns  and  then  a  devastating  concentra- 
tion of  shells  would  be  directed  toward  the  location  of 
the  machine  gun  nests. 

I  knew  that  I  was  lying  one  hundred  yards  from  one 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  317 


of  those  nests  and  I  knew  that  I  was  well  within  the 
fatal  bursting  radius  of  any  shells  our  gunners  might 
direct  against  that  German  target.  My  fear  was  that 
myself  and  other  American  wounded  lying  in  that  field 
would  die  by  American  guns.  That  is  what  would  have 
happened  if  that  information  had  reached  our  artillery 
and  it  is  what  should  have  happened. 

The  lives  of  the  wounded  in  that  field  were  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  importance  of  wiping  out  that  machine 
gun  nest  on  our  left  which  was  holding  up  the  entire 
advance. 

I  wanted  to  see  what  time  it  was  and  my  watch  was 
attached  to  my  left  wrist.  In  endeavouring  to  get  a  look 
at  it,  I  found  out  that  my  left  arm  was  stiff  and  racked 
with  pain.  Hartzell,  I  knew,  had  a  watch,  but  I  did  not 
know  where  he  was  lying,  so  I  called  out. 

He  answered  me  from  some  distance  away  but  I  could 
not  tell  how  far  or  in  what  direction.  I  could  see  dimly 
but  only  at  the  expense  of  great  pain.  When  he  answered 
I  shouted  back  to  him : 

"Are  you  hit?" 

"No,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  what  time  is  it  ?"  I  said. 

"Are  you  hit  badly?"  he  asked  in  reply. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  I  said.    "I  think  I'm  all  right." 

"Where  are  you  hit?"  he  asked. 

"In  the  head,"  I  said ;  "I  think  something  hit  my  eye." 

"In  the  head,  you  damn  fool,"  he  shouted  louder  with 
just  a  bit  of  anger  and  surprise  in  his  voice.  "How  the 
hell  can  you  be  all  right  if  you  are  hit  in  the  head?  Are 
you  bleeding  much?" 

"No,"  I  said.     "What  time  is  it,  will  you  tell  me?" 

"I'm  coming  over  to  get  you,"  shouted  Hartzell. 

"Don't  move,  you  damn  fool,  you  want  to  kill  both 


318  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

of  us?"  I  hastened  to  shout  back.  "If  you  start  moving, 
don't  move  near  me.    I  think  they  think  I'm  dead." 

"Well  you  can't  lie  there  and  bleed  to  death,"  Hartzell 
replied.  "We've  got  to  do  something  to  get  to  hell  out 
of  here.    What'll  we  do?" 

"Tell  me  what  time  it  is  and  how  long  it  will  be  before 
it's  dark,"  I  asked. 

"It's  six  o'clock  now,"  Hartzell  said,  "and  it  won't  be 
dark  'til  nine ;  this  is  June.  Do  you  think  you  can  stick 
it  out?" 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  I  could  and  we  were  silent 
for  some  time.  Both  of  us  had  the  feeling  that  other  ears 
— ears  working  in  conjunction  with  eyes  trained  along 
the  barrels  of  those  machine  guns  a  hundred  yards  on  our 
left — would  be  aroused  to  better  marksmanship  if  we 
continued  to  talk. 

I  began  to  take  stock  of  my  condition.  During  my 
year  or  more  along  the  fronts  I  had  been  through  many 
hospitals  and  from  my  observations  in  those  institutions 
I  had  cultivated  a  keen  distaste  for  one  thing — gas  gan- 
grene. I  had  learned  from  doctors  its  fatal  and  horrible 
results  and  I  also  had  learned  from  them  that  it  was 
caused  by  germs  which  exist  in  large  quantities  in  any 
ground  that  has  been  under  artificial  cultivation  for  a 
long  period. 

Such  was  the  character  of  the  very  field  I  was  lying 
in  and  I  came  to  the  realisation  that  the  wound  in  the 
left  side  of  my  face  and  head  was  resting  flatly  on  the 
soil.  With  my  right  hand  I  drew  up  my  British  box 
respirator  or  gas  mask  and  placed  this  under  my  head. 
Thus  I  rested  with  more  confidence,  although  the  machine 
gun  lead  continued  to  pass  in  sheets  through  the  tops 
of  the  oats  not  two  or  three  inches  above  my  head. 

All  of  it  was  coming  from  the  left, — coming  from  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  319 

German  nests  located  in  the  trees  at  the  apex  of  the  V- 
shapecl  field.  Those  guns  were  not  a  hundred  yards  away 
and  they  seemed  to  have  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  am- 
munition. Twenty  feet  away  on  my  left  a  wounded 
Marine  was  lying.  Occasionally  I  would  open  my  right 
eye  for  a  painful  look  in  his  direction. 

He  was  wounded  and  apparently  unconscious.  His 
pack,  "the  khaki  doll,"  was  still  strapped  between  his 
shoulders.  Unconsciously  he  was  doing  that  which  all 
wounded  men  do — that  is,  to  assume  the  position  that 
is  the  most  comfortable.  He  was  trying  to  roll  over  on 
his  back. 

But  the  pack  was  on  his  back  and  every  time  he  would 
roll  over  on  this  it  would  elevate  his  body  into  full  view 
of  the  German  gunners.  Then  a  withering  hail  of  lead 
would  sweep  the  field.  It  so  happened  that  I  was  lying 
immediately  in  line  between  those  German  guns  and  this 
unconscious  moving  target.  As  the  Marine  would  roll 
over  on  top  of  the  pack  his  chest  would  be  exposed  to  the 
fire. 

I  could  see  the  buttons  fly  from  his  tunic  and  one  of 
the  shoulder  straps  of  the  back  pack  part  as  the  sprays  of 
lead  struck  him.  He  would  limply  roll  off  the  pack  over  on 
his  side.  I  found  myself  wishing  that  he  would  lie  still, 
as  every  movement  of  his  brought  those  streams  of  bul- 
lets closer  and  closer  to  my  head.  I  even  considered  the 
thickness  of  the  box  respirator  on  which  I  had  elevated 
my  head  off  the  ground.    It  was  about  two  inches  thick. 

I  remembered  my  French  gas  mask  hanging  from  my 
shoulder  and  recalled  immediately  that  it  was  much  flat- 
ter, being  hardly  half  an  inch  in  thickness.  I  forthwith 
drew  up  the  French  mask  to  my  nead,  extracted  the  Brit- 
ish one  and  rested  my  cheek  closer  to  the  ground  on  the 
French  one.    Thus,  I  lowered  my  head  about  an  inch  and 


320  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

a  half — an  inch  and  a  half  that  represented  worlds  of 
satisfaction  and  some  optimism  to  me. 

Sometimes  there  were  lulls  in  the  firing.  During  those 
periods  of  comparative  quiet,  I  could  hear  the  occasional 
moan  of  other  wounded  on  that  field.  Very  few  of  them 
cried  out  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  those  who  did  were 
unconscious  when  they  did  it.  One  man  in  particular 
had  a  long,  low  groan.  I  could  not  see  him,  yet  I  felt 
he  was  lying  somewhere  close  to  me.  In  the  quiet 
intervals,  his  unconscious  expression  of  pain  reminded 
me  of  the  sound  I  had  once  heard  made  by  a  calf  which 
had  been  tied  by  a  short  rope  to  a  tree.  The  animal  had 
strayed  round  and  round  the  tree  until  its  entanglements 
in  the  rope  had  left  it  a  helpless  prisoner.  The  groan  of 
that  unseen,  unconscious  wounded  American  who  laid 
near  me  on  the  field  that  evening  sounded  exactly  like 
the  pitiful  bawl  of  that  calf. 

Those  three  hours  were  long  in  passing.  With  the 
successive  volleys  that  swept  the  field,  I  sometimes  lost 
hope  that  I  could  ever  survive  it.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
if  three  German  bullets  had  found  me  within  the  space 
of  fifteen  minutes,  I  could  hardly  expect  to  spend  three 
hours  without  receiving  the  fatal  one.  With  such 
thoughts  on  my  mind  I  reopened  conversation  with 
Hartzell. 

"How's  it  coming,  old  man?"  I  shouted. 

"They're  coming  damn  close,"  he  said ;  "how  is  it  with 
you?    Are  you  losing  much  blood?" 

"No,  I'm  all  right  as  far  as  that  goes,"  I  replied,  "but 
I  want  you  to  communicate  with  my  wife,  if  its  'west' 
for  me." 

"What's  her  address?"  said  Hartzell. 

"It's  a  long  one,"  I  said.    "Are  you  ready  to  take  it?" 

"Shoot,"  said  Hartzell. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  321 


"  'Mrs.  Floyd  Gibbons,  No.  12  Bis,  Rue  de  la  Cheva- 
lier de  la  Barre,  Dijon,  Cote  d'Or,  France.'  "  I  said  slowly. 

"My  God,"  said  Hartzell,  "say  it  again." 

Back  and  forth  we  repeated  the  address  correctly  and 
incorrectly  some  ten  or  twelve  times  until  Hartzell  in- 
formed me  that  he  knew  it  well  enough  to  sing  it.  He 
also  gave  me  his  wife's  address.  Then  just  to  make 
conversation  he  would  shout  over,  every  fifteen  minutes, 
and  tell  me  that  there  was  just  that  much  less  time  that 
we  would  have  to  lie  there. 

I  thought  that  hour  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock 
dragged  the  most,  but  the  one  between  eight  and  nine 
seemed  interminable.  The  hours  were  so  long,  particu- 
larly when  we  considered  that  a  German  machine  gun 
could  fire  three  hundred  shots  a  minute.  Dusk  ap- 
proached slowly.    And  finally  Hartzell  called  over : 

"I  don't  think  they  can  see  us  now,"  he  said ;  "let's  start 
to  crawl  back." 

"Which  way  shall  we  crawl?"  I  asked. 

"Into  the  woods,"  said  Hartzell. 

"Which  woods?"  I  asked. 

"The  woods  we  came  out  of,  you  damn  fool,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Which  direction  are  they  in?"  I  said,  "I've  been  mov- 
ing around  and  I  don't  know  which  way  I  am  heading. 
Are  you  on  my  left,  or  on  my  right?" 

"I  can't  tell  whether  I'm  on  your  left  or  your  right," 
he  replied.  "How  are  you  lying,  on  your  face  or  on 
your  back?" 

"On  my  face,"  I  said,  "and  your  voice  sounds  like 
it  comes  from  in  back  of  me  and  on  the  left." 

"If  that's  the  case,"  said  Hartzell,  "your  head  is  lying 
toward  the  wrong  woods.  Work  around  in  a  half  circle 
and  you'll  be  facing  the  right  direction." 


322  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

I  did  so  and  then  heard  Hartzell's  voice  on  my  right. 
I  started  moving  toward  him.  Against  my  better  judg- 
ment and  expressed  wishes,  he  crawled  out  toward  me 
and  met  me  half  way.  His  voice  close  in  front  of  me 
surprised  me. 

"Hold  your  head  up  a  little,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  see 
where  it  hit  you." 

"I  don't  think  it  looks  very  nice,"  I  replied,  lifting  my 
head.  I  wanted  to  know  how  it  looked  myself,  so  I  pain- 
fully opened  the  right  eye  and  looked  through  the  oats 
eighteen  inches  into  Hartzell's  face.  I  saw  the  look  of 
horror  on  it  as  he  looked  into  mine. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  after  crawling  painfully  through 
the  interminable  yards  of  young  oats,  we  reached  che  edge 
of  the  woods  and  safety. 

That's  how  it  feels  to  be  shot. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  323 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"good  morning,  nurse" 

Weakness  from  the  loss  of  blood  began  to  grow  on 
me  as  Lieutenant  Llartzell  and  I  made  our  way  through 
the  deepening  shadows  of  the  wooded  hillside  in  the 
rear  of  the  field  on  which  I  had  been  shot.  In  an  upright 
position  of  walking  the  pains  in  my  head  seemed  to  in- 
crease. We  stopped  for  a  minute  and,  neither  of  us  hav- 
ing first  aid  kits  with  us,  I  resurrected  a  somewhat  soiled 
silk  handkerchief  with  which  Hartzell  bound  up  my  head 
in  a  manner  that  applied  supporting  pressure  over  my 
left  eye  and  brought  a  degree  of  relief. 

Hartzell  told  me  later  that  I  was  staggering  slightly 
when  we  reached  a  small  relief  dugout  about  a  mile 
back  of  the  wood.  There  a  medical  corps  man  removed 
the  handkerchief  and  bound  my  head  with  a  white  gauze 
bandage.  I  was  anxious  to  have  the  wound  cleaned 
but  he  told  me  there  was  no  water.  He  said  they  had 
been  forced  to  turn  it  over  to  the  men  to  drink.  This 
seemed  to  me  to  be  as  it  should  be  because  my  thirst  was 
terrific,  yet  there  was  no  water  left. 

We  stumbled  rearward  another  half  mile  and,  in  the 
darkness,  came  upon  the  edge  of  another  wooded  area. 
A  considerable  number  of  our  wounded  were  lying  on 
stretchers  on  the  ground.  The  Germans  were  keeping 
up  a  continual  fire  of  shrapnel  and  high  explosive  shell 
in  the  woods,  apparently  to  prevent  the  mobilisation  of 
reserves,  but  the  doctors,  taking  care  of  the  wounded, 
proceeded  with  their  work  without  notice  to  the  whine 
of  the  shells  passing  overhead  or  the  bursting  of  those 


324  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

that  landed  nearby.  They  went  at  their  work  just  as 
though  they  were  caring  for  injured  men  on  a  football 
field. 

Hartzell  stretched  me  out  on  the  ground  and  soon 
had  a  doctor  bending  over  me.  The  doctor  removed  the 
eye  bandage,  took  one  look  at  what  was  beneath  it  and 
then  replaced  it.  I  remember  this  distinctly  because  at 
the  time  I  made  the  mental  note  that  the  doctor  apparently 
considered  my  head  wound  beyond  anything  he  could 
repair.  He  next  turned  his  attention  to  my  arm  and 
shoulder.  He  inserted  his  scissors  into  my  left  sleeve  at 
the  wrist  and  ripped  it  up  to  the  shoulder.  He  followed 
this  operation  by  cutting  through  my  heavy  khaki  tunic 
from  the  shoulder  to  the  collar.  A  few  more  snips  of 
the  nickel-plated  blades  and  my  shirt  and  undershirt 
were  cut  away.  He  located  the  three  bullet  holes,  two 
in  the  arm  and  one  across  the  top  of  the  shoulder,  and 
bound  them  up  with  bandages. 

"We're  awful  shy  on  ambulances,"  he  said ;  "you  will 
have  to  lie  here  a  while." 

"I  feel  that  I  can  walk  all  right  if  there  is  no  reason 
why  I  shouldn't,"  I  replied. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  an  ambulance,"  said  the  doctor, 
"but  if  you  feel  that  you  can  make  it,  you  might  take  a 
try  at  it." 

Then  turning  to  Lieutenant  Hartzell,  he  said,  "Keep 
right  with  him,  and  if  he  begins  to  get  groggy,  make 
him  lie  down." 

So  Hartzell  and  I  resumed  our  rearward  plodding 
or  staggering.  He  walked  at  my  right  side  and  slightly 
in  front  of  me,  holding  my  right  arm  over  his  right 
shoulder  and  thereby  giving  me  considerable  support. 
We  had  not  proceeded  far  before  we  heard  the  racing 
motor  of  an  automobile  coming  from  behind  us.     An 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  325 


occasional  shell  was  dropping  along  the  road  we  were 
now  on. 

A  stick  struck  my  legs  from  behind  in  the  darkness. 
And  then  an  apologetic  voice  said : 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  just  feeling  along  the  road  for 
shell  holes.  Ambulance  right  behind  me,  sir.  Would 
you  mind  stepping  to  one  side?  Come  on,  Bill,"  to  the 
driver  of  the  ambulance,  "it  looks  all  clear  through 
here." 

The  automobile  with  the  racing  motor  turned  out 
to  be  a  light  ambulance  of  a  popular  Detroit  make.  Its 
speeding  engine  was  pure  camouflage  for  its  slow  prog- 
ress. It  bubbled  and  steamed  at  the  radiator  cap  as  it 
pushed  along  at  almost  a  snail's  pace. 

"All  full?"  Hartzell  shouted  into  the  darkness  of  the 
driver's  seat. 

"To  the  brim,"  responded  the  driver.  "Are  you 
wounded  ?" 

"No,  but  I  have  a  wounded  man  with  me,"  said  Hart- 
zell. "He  can  sit  beside  you  on  the  seat  if  you  have  room." 

"Get  right  in,"  said  the  driver,  and  Hartzell  boosted  me 
into  the  front  seat.  We  pushed  along  slowly,  Hartzell 
walking  beside  the  car  and  the  driver's  assistant  pro- 
ceeding ahead  of  us,  searching  the  dark  road  with  his 
cane  for  new  shell  craters. 

Occasionally,  when  our  wheels  would  strike  in  one  of 
these,  groans  would  come  from  the  ambulance  proper. 

"Take  it  easy,"  would  come  a  voice  through  pain- 
pressed  lips;  "for  Christ's  sake,  do  you  think  you  are 
driving  a  truck  ?" 

I  heard  the  driver  tell  Hartzell  that  he  had  three  men 
with  bullet  splintered  legs  in  the  ambulance.  Every  jolt 
of  the  car  caused  their  broken  bones  to  jolt  and  increased 
the  pounding  of  their  wearied  nerves  to  an  extremity  of 


326  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

agony.    The  fourth  occupant  of  the  ambulance,  he  said, 
had  been  shot  through  the  lungs. 

Some  distance  along,  there  came  a  knock  on  the  wooden 
partition  behind  my  back, — the  partition  that  separates 
the  driver's  seat  from  the  ambulance  proper.  The  car 
stopped  and  the  driver  and  Hartzell  went  to  the  rear  door 
and  opened  it.  The  man  with  the  shot  through  the  lungs 
was  half  sitting  up  on  his  stretcher.  He  had  one  hand 
to  his  mouth  and  his  lips,  as  revealed  in  the  rays  of  the 
driver's  flashlight,  were  red  wet. 

"Quick — get  me — to  a  doctor,"  the  man  said  between 
gulps  and  gurgles. 

The  driver  considered.  He  knew  we  were  ten  miles 
from  the  closest  doctor.  Then  he  addressed  himself 
to  the  other  three  stretcher-cases — the  men  with  the  tor- 
ture-torn legs. 

"If  I  go  fast,  you  guys  are  going  to  suffer  the  agonies 
of  hell,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  go  slow  this  guy  with  the 
hemorrhage  will  croak  before  we  get  there.  How  do  you 
want  me  to  drive?" 

There  was  not  a  minute's  silence.  The  three  broken 
leg  cases  responded  almost  in  unison. 

"Go  as  fast  as  you  can,"  they  said. 

And  we  did.  With  Hartzell  riding  the  running  board 
beside  me  and  the  crater  finder  clinging  to  the  mud 
guards  on  the  other  side,  we  sped  through  the  darkness 
regardless  of  the  ruts  and  shell  holes.  The  jolting  was 
severe  but  never  once  did  there  come  another  complaint 
from  the  occupants  of  the  ambulance. 

In  this  manner  did  we  arrive  in  time  at  the  first  medi- 
cal clearing  station.  I  learned  later  that  the  life  of  the 
man  with  the  hemorrhage  was  saved  and  he  is  alive 
to-day. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  327 

The  clearing  station  was  located  in  an  old  church  on 
the  outskirts  of  a  little  village.  Four  times  during  this 
war  the  flow  and  ebb  of  battle  had  passed  about  this  old 
edifice.  Hartzell  half  carried  me  off  the  ambulance  seat 
and  into  the  church.  As  I  felt  my  feet  scrape  on  the  flag- 
stoned  flooring  underneath  the  Gothic  entrance  arch,  I 
opened  my  right  eye  for  a  painful  survey  of  the  interior. 

The  walls,  grey  with  age,  appeared  yellow  in  the  light 
of  the  candles  and  lanterns  that  were  used  for  illumina- 
tion. Blankets,  and  bits  of  canvas  and  carpet  had  been 
tacked  over  the  apertures  where  once  stained  glass  win- 
dows and  huge  oaken  doors  had  been.  These  precautions 
were  necessary  to  prevent  the  lights  from  shining  outside 
the  building  and  betraying  our  location  to  the  hospital- 
loving  eyes  of  German  bombing  'planes  whose  motors  we 
could  hear  even  at  that  minute,  humming  in  the  black 
sky  above  us. 

Our  American  wounded  were  lying  on  stretchers  all 
over  the  floor.  Near  the  door,  where  I  entered,  a  num- 
ber of  pews  had  been  pushed  to  one  side  and  on  these  our 
walking  wounded  were  seated.  They  were  smoking  cig- 
arettes and  talking  and  passing  observations  on  every 
fresh  case  that  came  through  the  door.  They  all  seemed 
to  be  looking  at  me. 

My  appearance  must  have  been  sufficient  to  have 
shocked  them.  I  was  hatless  and  my  hair  was  matted 
with  blood.  The  red-stained  bandage  around  my  fore- 
head and  extending  down  over  my  left  cheek  did  not 
hide  the  rest  of  my  face,  which  was  unwashed,  and  con- 
sequently red  with  fresh  blood. 

On  my  left  side  I  was  completely  bare  from  the  shoul- 
der to  the  waist  with  the  exception  of  the  strips  of  white- 
cloth  about  my  arm  and  shoulder.  My  chest  was  splashed 
with  red  from  the  two  body  wounds.     Such  was  my  en- 


328  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

trance.  I  must  have  looked  somewhat  grewsome  because 
I  happened  to  catch  an  involuntary  shudder  as  it  passed 
over  the  face  of  one  of  my  observers  among  the  walking 
wounded  and  I  heard  him  remark  to  the  man  next  to 
him : 

"My  God,  look  what  they're  bringing  in." 

Hartzell  placed  me  on  a  stretcher  on  the  floor  and 
went  for  water,  which  I  sorely  needed.  I  heard  some 
one  stop  beside  my  stretcher  and  bend  over  me,  while 
a  kindly  voice  said : 

"Would  you  like  a  cigarette,  old  man?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  He  lighted  one  in  his  own  lips 
and  placed  it  in  my  mouth.  I  wanted  to  know  my  bene- 
factor.    I  asked  him  for  his  name  and  organisation. 

"I  am  not  a  soldier,"  he  said ;  "I  am  a  non-combatant, 
the  same  as  you.  My  name  is  Slater  and  I'm  from  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A." 

That  cigarette  tasted  mighty  good.  If  you  who  read 
this  are  one  of  those  whose  contributions  to  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  made  that  distribution  possible,  I  wish  to  herewith 
express  to  you  my  gratefulness  and  the  gratefulness 
of  the  other  men  who  enjoyed  your  generosity  that 
night. 

In  front  of  what  had  been  the  altar  in  the  church, 
there  had  been  erected  a  rudely  constructed  operation 
table.  The  table  was  surrounded  with  tall  candelabrum 
of  brass  and  gilded  wood.  These  ornate  accessories  had 
been  removed  from  the  altar  for  the  purpose  of  provid- 
ing better  light  for  the  surgeons  who  busied  themselves 
about  the  table  in  their  long  gowns  of  white — stained 
with  red. 

I  was  placed  on  that  table  for  an  examination  and  I 
heard  a  peculiar  conversation  going  on  about  me.  One 
doctor  said,  "We  haven't  any  more  of  it."     Then  an- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  329 

other  doctor  said,  "But  I  thought  we  had  plenty."  The 
first  voice  replied,  "Yes,  but  we  didn't  expect  so  many 
wounded.  We  have  used  up  all  we  had."  Then  the 
second  voice  said,  "Well,  we  certainly  need  it  now.  I 
don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do  without  it." 

From  their  further  conversation  I  learned  that  the 
subject  under  discussion  was  anti-tetanus  serum — the 
all-important  inoculation  that  prevents  lockjaw  and  is 
also  an  antidote  for  the  germs  of  gas  gangrene.  You 
may  be  sure  I  became  more  than  mildly  interested  in  the 
absence  of  this  valuable  boon,  but  there  was  nothing  I 
could  say  that  would  help  the  case,  so  I  remained  quiet.  In 
several  minutes  my  composure  was  rewarded.  I  heard 
hurried  footsteps  across  the  flagstoned  flooring  and  a 
minute  later  felt  a  steel  needle  penetrating  my  abdomen. 
Then  a  cheery  voice  said : 

"It's  all  right,  now,  we've  got  plenty  of  it.  We've 
got  just  piles  of  it.  The  Red  Cross  just  shot  it  out  from 
Paris  in  limousines." 

After  the  injection  Hartzell  informed  me  that  the 
doctors  could  do  nothing  for  me  at  that  place  and  that 
I  was  to  be  moved  further  to  the  rear.  He  said  ambu- 
lances were  scarce  but  he  had  found  a  place  for  me  in  a 
returning  ammunition  truck.  I  was  carried  out  of  the 
church  and  somewhere  in  the  outer  darkness  was  lifted 
up  into  the  body  of  the  truck  and  laid  down  on  some  straw 
in  the  bottom.  There  were  some  fifteen  or  twenty  other 
men  lying  there  beside  me. 

The  jolting  in  this  springless  vehicle  was  severe,  but 
its  severity  was  relieved  in  some  of  our  cases  by  the  quiet- 
ing injections  we  had  received.  The  effects  of  these  nar- 
cotics had  worn  off  in  some  of  the  men  and  they  suffered 
the  worse  for  it.     One  of  them  continually  called  out 


330  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

to  the  truck  driver  to  go  slower  and  make  less  jolting. 
To  each  request  the  driver  responded  that  he  was  going 
as  slow  as  he  could.  As  the  jolting  continued  the  man 
with  the  complaining  nerves  finally  yelled  out  a  new 
request.     He  said : 

"Well,  if  you  can't  make  it  easier  by  going  slow,  then 
for  God's  sake  throw  her  into  high  and  go  as  fast  as  you 
can.     Let's  get  it  over  as  quick  as  we  can." 

Lying  on  my  back  in  the  truck  with  a  raincoat  as  a 
pillow,  I  began  to  wonder  where  we  were  bound  for. 
I  opened  my  eye  once  and  looked  up  toward  the  roof  of 
the  leafy  tunnel  which  covered  the  road.  Soon  we  passed 
out  from  beneath  the  trees  bordering  the  roadside  and 
I  could  see  the  sky  above.  The  moon  was  out  and 
there  were  lots  of  stars.  They  gave  one  something  to 
think  about.  After  all,  how  insignificant  was  one  little 
life. 

In  this  mood,  something  in  the  jolting  of  the  camion 
brought  to  my  mind  the  metre  and  words  of  George 
Amicks'  wistful  verses,  "The  Camion  Caravan,"  and  I 
repeat  it  from  memory : 

"Winding  down  through  sleeping  town 
Pale  stars  of  early  dawn ; 
Like  ancient  knight   with  squire  by  side, 
Driver  and  helper  now  we  ride — 
The  camion  caravan. 

"In  between  the  rows  of  trees 

Glare  of  the  mid-day  sun; 
Creeping  along  the  highway  wide, 
Slowly  in  long  defile,  we  ride — 

The  camion  caravan. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  331 

"Homeward  to  rcmorque  and  rest, 
Pale  stars  of  early  night; 
Through  stillness  of  the  eventide, 
Back  through  the  winding  town  we  ride — 
The  camion  caravan." 

Sometime  during  the  dark  hours  of  the  early  morning 
we  stopped  in  the  courtyard  of  a  hospital  and  I  was  taken 
into  another  examination  room  illuminated  with  pain- 
fully brilliant  lights.  I  was  placed  on  a  table  for  an 
examination,  which  seemed  rather  hurried,  and  then  the 
table  was  rolled  away  some  distance  down  a  corridor. 
I  never  understood  that  move  until  some  weeks  later 
when  a  Lieutenant  medical  officer  told  me  that  it  was  he 
who  had  examined  me  at  that  place. 

"You're  looking  pretty  fit,  now,"  he  said,  "but  that 
night  when  I  saw  you  I  ticketed  you  for  the  dead  pile. 
You  didn't  look  like  you  could  live  till  morning." 

His  statement  gave  me  some  satisfaction.  There  is 
always  joy  in  fooling  the  doctor. 

Hartzell,  who  still  accompanied  me,  apparently  res- 
cued me  from  the  "dead  pile"  and  we  started  on  another 
motor  trip,  this  time  on  a  stretcher  in  a  large,  easier- 
riding  ambulance.  In  this  I  arrived  shortly  after  dawn 
at  the  United  States  Military  Base  Hospital  at  Neuilly- 
sur-Seine,  on  the  outskirts  of  Paris. 

There  were  more  hurried  examinations  and  soon  I 
was  rolled  down  a  corridor  on  a  wheeled  table,  into  an 
elevator  that  started  upward.  Then  the  wheeled  table 
raced  down  another  long  corridor  and  I  began  to  feel 
that  my  journeyings  were  endless.  We  stopped  finally 
in  a  room  where  I  distinctly  caught  the  odour  of  ether. 
Some  one  began  removing  my  boots  and  clothes.  As 
that  some  one  worked  he  talked  to  me. 


332  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"I  know  you,  Mr.  Gibbons,"  he  said.  "I'm  from  Chi- 
cago also.  I  am  Sergeant  Stephen  Hayes.  I  used  to  go 
to  Hyde  Park  High  School.  We're  going  to  fix  you  up 
right  away." 

I  learned  from  Hayes  that  I  was  lying  in  a  room  ad- 
joining the  operating  chamber  and  was  being  prepared 
for  the  operating  table.  Some  information  concerning 
the  extent  of  my  injuries  and  the  purpose  of  the  opera- 
tion would  have  been  comforting  and  would  have  relieved 
the  sensation  of  utter  helpless  childishness  that  I  was 
experiencing. 

I  knew  I  was  about  to  go  under  the  influence  of 
the  anesthetic  and  that  something  was  going  to  be  done 
to  me.  I  had  every  confidence  that  whatever  was  done 
would  be  for  the  best  but  it  was  perfectly  natural  that  I 
should  be  curious  about  it.  Was  the  operation  to  be 
a  serious  one  or  a  minor  one?  Would  they  have  to  re- 
move my  eye  ?  Would  they  have  to  operate  on  my  skull  ? 
How  about  the  arm?  Would  there  be  an  amputation? 
How  about  the  other  eye?  Would  I  ever  see  again? 
It  must  be  remembered  that  in  spite  of  all  the  examina- 
tions I  had  not  been  informed  and  consequently  had  no 
knowledge  concerning  the  extent  of  my  injuries.  The 
only  information  I  had  received  had  been  included  in 
vague  remarks  intended  as  soothing,  such  as  "You're  all 
right,  old  man."  "You'll  pull  through  fine."  "You're 
coming  along  nicely."  But  all  of  it  had  seemed  too  pro- 
fessionally optimistic  to  satisfy  me  and  my  doubts  still 
remained. 

They  were  relieved,  however,  by  the  pressure  of  a  hand 
and  the  sound  of  a  voice.  In  the  words  spoken  and  in 
the  pressure  of  the  hand,  there  was  hardly  anything  dif- 
ferent from  similar  hand  pressures  and  similar  spoken 
phrases  that  had  come  to  me  during  the  night,  yet  there 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  333 

was  everything  different.  This  voice  and  this  hand  car- 
ried supreme  confidence.  I  could  believe  in  both  of  them. 
I  felt  the  hand  pressure  on  my  right  shoulder  and  the 
mild  kindly  voice  said : 

"Son,  I  am  going  to  operate  on  you.  I  have  examined 
you  and  you  are  all  right.  You  are  going  to  come 
through  fine.     Don't  worry  about  anything." 

"Thank  you,  very  much,"  I  said,  "I  like  your  voice. 
It  sounds  like  my  father's.    Will  you  tell  me  your  name?" 

"I  am  Major  Powers,"  the  kindly  voice  said.  "Now 
just  take  it  easy,  and  I  will  talk  to  you  again  in  a  couple 
of  hours  when  you  feel  better." 

The  speaker,  as  I  learned  later,  was  Major  Charles 
Powers,  of  Denver,  Colorado,  one  of  the  best-known  and 
best-loved  surgeons  in  the  West.  A  man  far  advanced 
in  his  profession  and  well  advanced  in  his  years,  a  man 
whose  life  has  not  been  one  of  continual  health,  a  man 
who,  upon  America's  entry  of  the  war,  sacrificed  the 
safety  of  the  beneficial  air  rarity  of  his  native  Denver 
to  answer  the  country's  call,  to  go  to  France  at  great 
personal  risk  to  his  health — a  risk  only  appreciated  by 
those  who  know  him  well.  It  was  Major  Powers  who 
operated  upon  the  compound  fracture  in  my  skull  that 
morning. 

My  mental  note-taking  continued  as  the  anesthetist 
worked  over  me  with  the  ether.  As  I  began  breathing 
the  fumes  I  remember  that  my  senses  were  keenly  mak- 
ing observations  on  every  sensation  I  experienced.  The 
thought  even  went  through  my  mind  that  it  would  be 
rather  an  unusual  thing  to  report  completely  the  im- 
pressions of  coma.  This  suggestion  became  a  deter- 
mination and  I  became  keyed  up  to  everything  going  on 
about  me. 

The  conversation  of  the  young  doctor  who  was  ad- 


334  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ministering  the  anesthetic  interested  me  unusually.  He 
was  very  busy  and  business-like  and  although  I  con- 
sidered myself  an  important  and  most  interested  party 
in  the  entire  proceedings,  his  conversation  ignored  me 
entirely.  He  not  only  did  not  talk  to  me,  but  he  was  not 
even  talking  about  me.  As  he  continued  to  apply  the 
ether,  he  kept  up  a  running  fire  of  entirely  extraneous 
remarks  with  some  other  person  near  the  table.  I  did 
not  appreciate  then,  as  I  do  now,  that  I  was  only  one 
of  very,  very  many  that  he  had  anesthetised  that  morn- 
ing and  the  night  before,  but  at  the  time  his  seeming  lack 
of  all  interest  in  me  as  me,  piqued  me  considerably. 

"Are  you  feeling  my  pulse?"  I  said.  I  could  not 
feel  his  hand  on  either  of  my  wrists,  but  I  asked  the 
question  principally  to  inject  myself  into  the  conversa- 
tion in  some  way  or  other,  preferably  in  some  way  that 
would  call  him  to  account,  as  I  had  by  this  time  aroused 
within  me  a  keen  and  healthy  dislike  for  this  busy  little 
worker  whom  I  could  not  see  but  who  stood  over  me 
and  carried  on  conversations  with  other  people  to  my 
utter  and  complete  exclusion.  And  all  the  time  he  was 
engaged  in  feeding  me  the  fumes  that  I  knew  would  soon 
steal  away  my  senses. 

"Now,  never  you  mind  about  your  pulse,"  he  re- 
plied somewhat  peevishly.  "I'm  taking  care  of  this." 
It  seemed  to  me  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he  im- 
plied I  was  talking  about  something  that  was  none  of 
my  business  and  I  had  the  distinct  conviction  that  if 
the  proceedings  were  anybody's  business,  they  certainly 
were  mine. 

"You  will  pardon  me  for  manifesting  a  mild  interest 
in  what  you  are  doing  to  me,"  I  said,  "but  you  see  I 
know  that  something  is  going  to  be  done  to  my  right 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  335 

eye  and  inasmuch  as  that  is  the  only  eye  I've  got  on  that 
side,  I  can't  help  being  concerned." 

"Now,  you  just  forget  it  and  take  deep  breaths,  and 
say,  Charlie,  did  you  see  that  case  over  in  Ward  62  ? 
That  was  a  wonderful  case.  The  bullet  hit  the  man  in 
the  head  and  they  took  the  lead  out  of  his  stomach. 
He's  got  the  bullet  on  the  table  beside  him  now.  Talk 
about  bullet  eaters — believe  me,  those  Marines  sure  are." 

I  hurled  myself  back  into  the  conversation. 

"I'll  take  deep  breaths  if  you'll  loosen  the  straps  over 
my  chest,"  I  said,  getting  madder  each  minute.  "How 
can  I  take  a  full  breath  when  you've  got  my  lungs 
strapped  down?" 

"Well,  how's  that?"  responded  the  conversational 
anesthetist,  as  he  loosened  one  of  the  straps.  "Now, 
take  one  breath  of  fresh  air — one  deep,  long  breath, 
now." 

I  turned  my  head  to  one  side  to  escape  the  fumes  from 
the  stifling  towel  over  my  face  and  made  a  frenzied  gulp 
for  fresh  air.  As  I  did  so,  one  large  drop  of  ether  fell 
on  the  table  right  in  front  of  my  nose  and  the  deep 
long  breath  I  got  had  very  little  air  in  it.  I  felt  I  had 
been  tricked. 

"You're  pretty  cute,  old  timer,  aren't  you?"  I  re- 
marked to  the  anesthetist  for  the  purpose  of  letting  him 
know  that  I  was  on  to  his  game,  but  either  he  didn't 
hear  me,  or  he  was  too  interested  in  telling  Charlie  about 
his  hopes  and  ambitions  to  be  sent  to  the  front  with  a 
medical  unit  that  worked  under  range  of  the  guns.  He 
returned  to  a  consideration  of  me  with  the  following 
remark : 

"All  right,  he's  under  now;  where's  the  next  one?" 

"The  hell  I  am,"  I  responded  hastily,  as  visions  of 
knives  and   saws  and   gimlets  and   brain   chisels   went 


336  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

through  my  mind.  I  had  no  intention  or  desire  of  being 
conscious  when  the  carpenters  and  plumbers  started  to 
work  on  me. 

I  was  completely  ignored  and  the  table  started  moving. 
We  rolled  across  the  floor  and  there  commenced  a  click- 
ing under  the  back  of  my  head,  not  unlike  the  sound  made 
when  the  barber  lowers  or  elevates  the  head-rest  on  his 
chair.  The  table  rolled  seemingly  a  long  distance  down 
a  long  corridor  and  then  came  to  the  top  of  a  slanting 
runway. 

As  I  started  riding  the  table  down  the  runway  I  began 
to  see  that  I  was  descending  an  inclined  tube  which 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  yellow  vapour.  Some  distance 
down,  the  table  slowed  up  and  we  came  to  a  stop  in 
front  of  a  circular  bulkhead  in  the  tunnel. 

There  was  a  door  in  the  centre  of  the  bulkhead  and 
in  the  centre  of  the  door  there  was  a  small  wicket  win- 
dow which  opened  and  two  grotesquely  smiling  eyes 
peered  out  at  me.  Those  eyes  inspected  me  from  head 
to  foot  and  then,  apparently  satisfied,  they  twinkled  and 
the  wicket  closed  with  a  snap.  Then  the  door  opened 
and  out  stepped  a  quaint  and  curious  figure  with  gnarled 
limbs  and  arms  and  a  peculiar  misshapen  head,  com- 
pletely covered  with  a  short  growth  of  black  hair. 

I  laughed  outright,  laughed  hilariously.  I  recognised 
the  man.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  him  was  when  he 
stepped  out  of  a  gas  tank  on  the  18th  floor  of  an  office 
building  in  Chicago  where  I  was  reclining  at  the  time 
in  a  dentist  chair.  He  was  the  little  gas  demon  who 
walked  with  me  through  the  Elysian  fields  the  last  time 
I  had  a  tooth  pulled. 

"Well  you  poor  little  son-of-a-gun,"  I  said,  by  way  of 
greeting.     "What    are    you    doing    way    over    here    in 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  337 

France  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  for  almost  two  years,  since 
that  day  back  in  Chicago." 

The  gas  demon  rolled  his  head  from  one  side  to  the 
other  and  smiled,  but  I  can't  remember  what  he  said. 
My  mental  note-taking  concluded  about  there  because 
the  next  memory  I  have  is  of  complete  darkness,  and  ly- 
ing on  my  back  in  a  cramped  position  while  a  horse 
trampled  on  my  left  arm. 

"Back  off  of  there,"  I  shouted,  but  the  animal's  hoofs 
didn't  move.  The  only  effect  my  shouting  had  was 
to  bring  a  soft  hand  into  my  right  one,  and  a  sweet 
voice  close  beside  me. 

"You're  all  right,  now,"  said  the  sweet  voice,  "just 
try  to  take  a  little  nap  and  you'll  feel  better." 

Then  I  knew  it  was  all  over,  that  is,  the  operation  was 
over,  or  something  was  over.  Anyhow  my  mind  was 
working  and  I  was  in  a  position  where  I  wanted  to  know 
things  again.  I  recall  now,  with  a  smile,  that  the  first 
things  that  passed  through  my  mind  were  the  threadbare 
bromides  so  often  quoted  "Where  am  I?"  I  recall  feel- 
ing the  urge  to  say  something  at  least  original,  so  I 
enquired : 

"What  place  is  this,  and  will  you  please  tell  me  what 
day  and  time  it  is?" 

"This  is  the  Military  Base  Hospital  at  Neuilly-sur- 
Seine  just  on  the  outskirts  of  Paris,  and  it  is  about 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  to-day  is  Friday,  June 
the  seventh." 

Then  I  went  back  to  sleep  with  an  etherised  taste  in 
my  mouth  like  a  motorman's  glove. 


338  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

GROANS,    LAUGHS  AND   SOBS   IN    THE    HOSPITAL 

There  were  fourteen  wounded  American  soldiers  in 
my  ward — all  men  from  the  ranks  and  representing 
almost  as  many  nationalistic  extractions.  There  was  an 
Irishman,  a  Swede,  an  Italian,  a  Jew,  a  Pole,  one  man 
of  German  parentage,  and  one  man  of  Russian  extrac- 
tion. All  of  them  had  been  wounded  at  the  front  and 
all  of  them  now  had  something  nearer  and  dearer  to  them 
than  any  traditions  that  might  have  been  handed  down  to 
them  from  a  mother  country — they  had  fought  and 
bled  and  suffered  for  a  new  country,  their  new  country. 

Here  in  this  ward  was  the  new  melting  pot  of  America. 
Not  the  melting  pot  of  our  great  American  cities  where 
nationalistic  quarters  still  exist,  but  a  greater  fusion 
process  from  which  these  men  had  emerged  with  un- 
questionable Americanism.  They  are  the  real  and  the 
new  Americans — born  in  the  hell  of  battle. 

One  night  as  we  lay  there,  we  heard  an  automobile 
racing  through  a  street  in  this  sleepy,  warm  little 
faubourg  of  Paris.  The  motor  was  sounding  on  its 
siren  a  call  that  was  familiar  to  all  of  us.  It  was  the 
alarm  of  a  night  attack  from  the  air.  It  meant  that 
German  planes  had  crossed  the  front  line  and  were  on 
Iheir  way  with  death  and  destruction  .for  Paris. 

A  nurse  entered  the  room  and  drew  the  curtains  of 
the  tall  windows  to  keep  from  our  eyes  'the  flash  and  the 
glitter  of  the  shells  that  soon  began  to  burst  in  the  sky 
above  us  as  the  aerial  defences  located  on  the  outer  circle 
of  the  city  began  to  erect  a  wall  of  bursting  steel  around 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  339 

the  French  capital.  We  could  hear  the  guns  barking 
close  by  and  occasionally  the  louder  boom  that  told  us 
one  of  the  German  bombs  had  landed.  Particles  of 
shrapnel  began  falling  in  the  garden  beneath  the  windows 
of  our  ward  and  we  could  hear  the  rattle  of  the  pieces 
on  the  slate  roof  of  a  pavilion  there.  It  is  most  un- 
pleasant, it  goes  without  saying,  to  lie  helpless  on  one's 
back  and  grapple  with  the  realisation  that  directly  over 
your  head — right  straight  above  your  eyes  and  face — 
is  an  enemy  airplane  loaded  with  bombs.  Many  of  us 
knew  that  those  bombs  contained,  some  of  them,  more 
than  two  hundred  pounds  of  melilite  and  some  of  us 
had  witnessed  the  terrific  havoc  they  wrought  when  they 
landed  on  a  building.  All  of  us  knew,  as  the  world 
knows,  the  particular  attraction  that  hospitals  have  for 
German  bombs. 

The  aerial  bombardment  subsided  after  some  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes  and  soon  we  heard  the  motor  racing  back 
through  the  streets  while  a  musician  in  the  car  sounded 
on  a  bugle  the  "prologue"  or  the  signal  that  the  raid 
was  over.  The  invaders  had  been  driven  back.  All  of 
us  in  the  ward  tried  to  sleep.  But  nerves  tingled  from 
this  more  or  less  uncomfortable  experience  and  wounds 
ached  and  burned.  Sleep  was  almost  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  in  the  darkened  ward  I  soon  noticed  the  red 
glow  of  cigarette  after  cigarette  from  bed  to  bed  as  the 
men  sought  to  woo  relief  with  tobacco  smoke. 

We  began  to  discuss  a  subject  very  near  and  very  dear 
to  all  wounded  men.  That  is,  what  they  are  going  to 
do  as  soon  as  they  get  out  of  the  hospital.  It  is  known, 
of  course,  that  the  first  consideration  usually  is,  to  re- 
turn to  the  front,  but  in  many  instances  in  our  ward, 
this  was  entirely  out  of  the  question. 

So  it  was  with  Dan  Bailey  who  occupied  a  bed  two 


340 


'AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


beds  on  my  right.     His  left  leg  was  off  above  the  knee. 
He  lost  it  going  over  the  top  at  Cantigny. 

"I  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  when  I  get  home,"  he 
said,  "I  am  going  to  get  a  job  as  an  instructor  in  a 
roller  skating  rink." 

In  a  bed  on  the  other  side  of  the  ward  was  a  young 
man  with  his  right  arm  off.  His  name  was  Johnson 
and  he  had  been  a  musician.  In  time  of  battle,  musicians 
lay  aside  their  trombones  and  cornets  and  go  over  the 
top  with  the  men,  only  they  carry  stretchers  instead  of 
rifles.  Johnson  had  done  this.  Something  had  ex- 
ploded quite  close  to  him  and  his  entire  recollection  of 
the  battle  was  that  he  had  awakened  being  carried  back 
on  his  own  stretcher. 

"I  know  where  I  can  sure  get  work,"  he  said,  glanc- 
ing down  at  the  stump  of  his  lost  arm.  "I  am  going  to 
sign  up  as  a  pitcher  with  the  St.  Louis  Nationals." 

Days  later  when  I  looked  on  Johnson  for  the  first  time, 
I  asked  him  if  he  wasn't  Irish,  and  he  said  no.  Then 
I  asked  him  where  he  lost  his  arm  and  he  replied,  "At 
the  yoint."     And  then  I  knew  where  he  came  from. 

But  concerning  after-the-war  occupations,  I  en- 
deavoured that  night  to  contribute  something  in  a  similar 
vein  to  the  general  discussion,  and  I  suggested  the  pos- 
sibility that  I  might  return  to  give  lessons  on  the  monocle. 

The  prize  prospect,  however,  was  submitted  by  a  man 
who  occupied  a  bed  far  over  in  one  corner  of  the  room. 
He  was  the  possessor  of  a  polysyllabic  name — a  name 
sprinkled  with  k's,  s's  and  z's,  with  a  scarcity  of  vowels 
— a  name  that  we  could  not  pronounce,  much  less  re- 
member. On  account  of  his  size  we  called  him  "Big 
Boy."     His  was  a  peculiar  story. 

He  had  been  captured  by  three  Germans  who  were 
marching  him  back  to  their  line.     In  telling  me  the  story 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  341 

Big  Boy  said,  "Mr.  Gibbons,  I  made  up  my  mind  as  I 
walked  back  with  them  that  I  might  just  as  well  be  dead 
as  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  war  studying  German." 

So  he  had  struck  the  man  on  the  right  and  the  one  on 
the  left  and  had  downed  both  of  them,  but  the  German 
in  back  of  him,  got  him  with  the  bayonet.  A  nerve 
centre  in  his  back  was  severed  by  the  slash  of  the  steel 
that  extended  almost  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other,  and 
Big  Boy  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  his  arms  and  legs 
powerless.  Then  the  German  with  the  bayonet  robbed 
him.  Big  Boy  enumerated  the  loss  to  me, — fifty-three 
dollars  and  his  girl's  picture. 

Although  paralysed  and  helpless,  there  was  nothing 
down  in  the  mouth  about  Big  Boy — indeed,  he  provided 
most  of  the  fun  in  the  ward.  He  had  an  idea  all  of 
his  own  about  what  he  was  going  to  do  after  the  war 
and  he  let  us  know  about  it  that  night. 

"All  of  you  guys  have  told  what  you're  going  to  do," 
he  said,  "now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I'm  going 
back  to  that  little  town  of  mine  in  Ohio  and  go  down 
to  the  grocery  store  and  sit  there  on  a  soap  box  on  the 
porch. 

"Then  I'm  going  to  gather  all  the  little  boys  in  the 
neighbourhood  round  about  me  and  then  I'm  going  to 
outlie  the  G.  A.  R." 

There  was  one  thing  in  that  ward  that  nobody  could  lie 
about  and  that  was  the  twitches  of  pain  we  suffered  in 
the  mornings  when  the  old  dressings  of  the  day  before 
were  changed  and  new  ones  applied. 

The  doctor  and  his  woman  assistant  who  had  charge 
of  the  surgical  dressings  on  that  corridor  would  arrive 
in  the  ward  shortly  after  breakfast.  They  would  be 
wheeling  in  front  of  them  a  rubber-tired,  white-enamelled 
vehicle  on  which  were  piled  the  jars  of  antiseptic  gauze 


342  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  trays  of  nickel-plated  instruments,  which  both  the 
doctor  and  his  assistant  would  handle  with  rubber-gloved 
hands.  In  our  ward  that  vehicle  was  known  as  the 
"Agony  Cart,"  and  every  time  it  stopped  at  the  foot  of 
a  bed  you  would  be  pretty  sure  to  hear  a  groan  or  a  stifled 
wail  in  a  few  minutes. 

We  had  various  ways  of  expressing  or  suppressing  the 
pain.  You  who  have  had  a  particularly  vicious  mustard 
plaster  jerked  off  that  tender  spot  in  the  back,  right 
between  the  shoulders,  have  some  small  conception  of 
the  delicate  sensation  that  accompanies  the  removal  of  old 
gauze  from  a  healing  wound. 

Some  of  the  men  would  grit  their  teeth  and  grunt, 
others  would  put  their  wrists  in  their  mouths  and  bite 
themselves  during  the  operation.  Some  others  would 
try  to  keep  talking  to  the  doctor  or  the  nurse  while  the 
ordeal  was  in  progress  and  others  would  just  simply 
shout.  There  was  little  satisfaction  to  be  gained  from 
these  expressions  of  pain  because  while  one  man  was 
yelling  the  other  thirteen  in  the  ward  were  shouting  with 
glee  and  chaffing  him,  and  as  soon  as  his  wounds  had 
been  redressed  he  would  join  in  the  laughs  at  the  expense 
of  those  who  followed  him. 

There  was  a  Jewish  boy  in  the  ward  and  he  had  a  par- 
ticularly painful  shell  wound  in  his  right  leg.  He  was 
plucky  about  the  painful  treatment  and  used  to  say  to 
the  doctor,  "Don't  mind  me  yelling,  doc.  I  can't  help  it, 
but  you  just  keep  right  on." 

The  Jew  boy's  cry  of  pain  as  near  as  I  can  reproduce 
it  went  something  like  this,  "Oy!  Oy!!  Oy!!!  YOY!!! 
Doctor !" 

The  Jew  boy's  clear-toned  enunciation  of  this  Yiddish 
lullaby,  as  the  rest  of  the  ward  called  it,  brought  many 
a  heartless,  fiendish  laugh   from  the  occupants  of  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  343 

other  beds.  We  almost  lost  one  of  our  patients  on 
account  of  that  laugh.  He  nearly  laughed  himself  to 
death — in  fact. 

This  near  victim  of  uncontrollable  risibilities  was  an 
Italian  boy  from  the  East  Side  of  New  York.  A  piece 
of  shrapnel  had  penetrated  one  of  his  lungs  and  pleurisy 
had  developed  in  the  other  one.  It  had  become  neces- 
sary to  operate  on  one  of  the  lungs  and  tape  it  down. 
The  boy  had  to  do  his  best  to  breathe  with  one  lung  that 
was  affected  by  pleurisy.  Every  breath  was  like  the 
stab  of  a  knife  and  it  was  quite  natural  that  the  patient 
would  be  peevish  and  garrulous.  The  whole  ward  called 
him  the  "dying  Wop."     But  his  name  was  Frank. 

When  the  Jew  boy  would  run  the  scale  with  his  torture 
cry,  the  "dying  Wop"  would  be  forced  to  forget  his 
laboured  breathing  and  give  vent  to  laughter.  These 
almost  fatal  laughs  sounded  something  like  this: 

"He!  Hee!!  Hee!!!  (on  a  rising  inflection  and  then 
much  softer)  Oh,  Oh,  Oh!  Stop  him,  stop  him,  stop 
him!"  The  "He-Hee's"  were  laughs,  but  the  "Oh-oh's" 
were  excruciating  pain. 

Frank  grew  steadily  worse  and  had  to  be  removed 
from  the  ward.  Weeks  afterward  I  went  back  to  see 
him  and  found  him  much  thinner  and  considerably 
weaker.  He  occupied  a  bed  on  one  of  the  pavilions  in 
the  garden.  He  was  still  breathing  out  of  that  one 
lung  and  between  gasps  he  told  me  that  six  men  had 
died  in  the  bed  next  to  him.  Then  he  smiled  up  at 
me  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  seemed  to  say,  "But 
they  haven't  croaked  the  'dying  Wop'  yet." 

"This  here — hospital  stuff "  Frank  told  me  slowly, 

and  between  gasps,  "is  the  big  fight  after  all.  I  know — 
I  am  fighting  here — against  death — and  am  going  to  win 
out,  too. 


344  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"I'm  going  to  win  out  even  though  it  is  harder  to 
fight — than  fighting — the  Germans — up  front.  We  Ital- 
ians licked  Hell  out  of  them — a  million  years  ago.  Old 
General  Caesar  did  it  and  he  used  to  bring  them  back 
to  Rome  and  put  'em  in  white-wing  suits  on  the  streets." 

For  all  his  quaint  knowledge  of  Caesar's  successes 
against  the  progenitors  of  Kulturland  of  to-day,  Frank 
was  all  American.  Here  was  a  rough-cut  young  Ameri- 
can from  the  streets  of  New  York's  Little  Italy.  Here 
was  a  man  who  had  almost  made  the  supreme  sacrifice. 
Here  was  a  man  who,  if  he  did  escape  death,  faced  long 
weakened  years  ahead.  It  occurred  to  me  that  I  would 
like  to  know,  that  it  would  be  interesting  to  know,  in 
what  opinion  this  wounded  American  soldier,  the  son 
of  uneducated  immigrant  parents,  would  hold  the  Chief 
Executive  of  the  United  States,  the  man  he  would  most 
likely  personify  as  responsible  for  the  events  that  led 
up  to  his  being  wounded  on  the  battlefield. 

"Frank,"  I  asked,  "what  do  you  think  about  the  Presi- 
dent of  the  United  States?" 

He  seemed  to  be  considering  for  a  minute,  or  maybe 
he  was  only  waiting  to  gather  sufficient  breath  to  make 
an  answer.  He  had  been  lying  with  his  eyes  directed 
steadfastly  toward  the  ceiling.  Now  he  turned  his  face 
slowly  toward  me.-  His  eyes,  sunken  slightly  in  their 
sockets,  shone  fevenshly.  His  pinched,  hollow  cheeks 
were  still  swarthy,  bu'  the  background  of  the  white  pil- 
low made  them  look  wan  N  Slowly  he  moistened  his  lips, 
and  then  he  said : 

"Say — say — that  guy — that  guy's — got  hair — on  his 
chest." 

That  was  the  opinion  of  the  "dying  Wop." 

After  Frank's  removal  from  our  ward,  the  rest  of  us 
frequently  sent  messages  of  cheer  down  to  him.     These 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  345 


messages  were  usually  carried  by  a  young  American 
woman  who  had  a  particular  interest  in  our  ward.  Not 
strange  to  say,  she  had  donned  a  Red  Cross  nursing 
uniform  on  the  same  day  that  most  of  us  arrived  in  that 
ward.  She  was  one  of  the  American  women  who 
brought  us  fruit,  ice  cream,  candy  and  cigarettes.  She 
wrote  letters  for  us  to  our  mothers.  She  worked  long 
hours,  night  and  day,  for  us.  In  her  absence,  one  day, 
the  ward  went  into  session  and  voted  her  its  guardian 
angel.  Out  of  modesty,  I  was  forced  to  answer  "Pres- 
ent" instead  of  "Aye"  to  the  roll-call.  The  Angel  was 
and  is  my  wife. 

As  Official  Ward  Angel  it  was  among  the  wife's  duties 
to  handle  the  matter  of  visitors,  of  which  there  were 
many.  It  seemed,  during  those  early  days  in  June,  that 
every  American  woman  in  France  dropped  whatever  war 
work  she  was  doing  and  rushed  to  the  American  hospitals 
to  be  of  whatever  service  she  could.  And  it  was  not 
easy  work  these  women  accomplished.  There  was  very 
little  "forehead-rubbing"  or  "moving  picture  nursing." 
Much  of  it  was  tile  corridor  scrubbing  and  pan  cleaning. 
They  stopped  at  no  tasks  they  were  called  upon  to  per- 
form. Many  of  them  worked  themselves  sick  during 
the  long  hours  of  that  rush  period. 

Sometimes  the  willingness,  eagerness  and  sympathy 
of  some  of  the  visitors  produced  humourous  little  inci- 
dents in  our  hospital  life.  Nearly  all  of  the  women  en- 
tering our  ward  would  stop  at  the  foot  of  "Big  Boy's" 
bed.  They  would  learn  of  his  paralysed  condition  from 
the  chart  attached  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Then  they 
would  mournfully  shake  their  heads  and  slowly  pro- 
nounce the  words  "Poor  boy." 

And  above  all  things  in  the  world  distasteful  to  Big 
Boy  was  that  one  expression   "Poor  boy"  because  as 


346  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

soon  as  the  kindly  intentioned  women  would  leave  the 
room,  the  rest  of  the  ward  would  take  up  the  "Poor  boy" 
chorus  until  Big  Boy  got  sick  of  it.  Usually,  however, 
before  leaving  the  ward  the  woman  visitor  would  take 
from  a  cluster  of  flowers  on  her  arm,  one  large  red  rose 
and  this  she  would  solemnly  desposit  on  Big  Boy's  de- 
fenceless chest. 

Big  Boy  would  smile  up  to  her  a  look  which  she  would 
accept  and  interpret  as  one  of  deep,  undying  gratitude. 
The  kindly-intentioned  one  surrounding  herself  with 
that  benediction  that  is  derived  from  a  sacred  duty  well 
performed,  would  walk  slowly  from  the  room  and  as 
the  door  would  close  behind  her,  Big  Boy's  gruff  drawl- 
ing voice  would  sing  out  in  a  call  for  the  orderly. 

"Dan,  remove  the  funeral  decorations,"  he  would 
order. 

Dan  Sullivan,  our  orderly,  was  the  busiest  man  in 
the  hospital.  Big  Boy  liked  to  smoke,  but,  being  para- 
lysed, he  required  assistance.  At  regular  intervals  dur- 
ing the  day  the  ward  room  door,  which  was  close  to  Big 
Boy's  bed,  would  open  slowly  and  through  the  gap  four 
or  six  inches  wide  the  rest  of  the  ward  would  get  a 
glimpse  of  Dan  standing  in  the  opening  with  his  arms 
piled  high  with  pots  and  utensils,  and  a  cigarette  hanging 
from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

With  one  hand  he  would  extract  the  cigarette,  insert 
hand  and  arm  through  the  opening  in  the  door  until  it 
hovered  above  Big  Boy's  face.  Then  the  hand  would 
descend  and  the  cigarette  would  be  inserted  in  Big  Boy's 
mouth  just  as  you  would  stick  a  pin  in  a  pin-cushion. 
Big  Boy  would  lie  back  comfortably  and  puff  away  like 
a  Mississippi  steamboat  for  four  or  five  minutes  and 
then  the  door  would  open  just  a  crack  again,  the  mysteri- 
ous hand  and  arm  would  reach  in  once  more  and  the 


THE    NEWS    FROM    THE   STA1  E8 


»MII.INC     H'lM'XDF.D    AM11IH    \\     XHDIKKS 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  347 

cigarette  would  be  plucked  out.  That  was  the  way  Big 
Boy  got  his  "smokes." 

If  Big  Boy's  voice  was  gruff,  there  was  still  a  gruffer 
voice  that  used  to  come  from  a  man  in  the  corner  of 
the  ward  to  the  left  of  my  bed.  During  the  first  four 
or  five  days  I  was  an  inmate  of  the  ward,  I  was  most 
interested  in  all  the  voices  I  heard  because  I  lay  in  total 
darkness.  The  bandages  extended  down  from  the  top  of 
my  head  to  my  upper  lip,  and  I  did  not  know  whether  or 
not  I  ever  would  see  again.  I  would  listen  carefully  to 
all  remarks  within  ear-shot,  whether  they  be  from  doc- 
tors, nurses  or  patients.  I  listened  in  the  hope  that  from 
them  I  might  learn  whether  or  not  there  was  a  possibility 
of  my  regaining  vision.  But  all  of  their  remarks  with 
regard  to  my  condition  were  ambiguous  and  unsatisfac- 
tory. But  from  this  I  gained  a  listening  habit  and  that 
was  how  I  became  particularly  interested  in  the  very 
gruff  voice  that  came  from  the  corner  on  my  left. 

Other  patients  directing  remarks  into  that  corner  would 
address  them  to  a  man  whom  they  would  call  by  name 
"Red  Shannahan."  I  was  quick  to  connect  the  gruff 
voice  and  the  name  "Red  Shannahan,"  and  as  I  had 
lots  of  time  and  nothing  else  to  do,  I  built  up  in  my 
mind's  eye  a  picture  of  a  tall,  husky,  rough  and  ready, 
tough  Irishman,  with  red  hair — a  man  of  whom  it 
would  be  conceivable  that  he  had  wiped  out  some  two 
or  three  German  regiments  before  they  got  him.  To  find 
out  more  about  this  character,  I  called  over  to  him  one 
day. 

"Red  Shannahan,  are  you  there?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Gibbons,  I'm  here,"  came  the  reply,  and  I 
was  immensely  surprised  because  it  was  not  the  gruff  voice 
at  all.  It  was  the  mild,  unchanged  voice  of  a  boy,  a  boy 
whose  tones  were  still  in  the  upper  register.     The  reply 


348  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

seemed  almost  girlish  in  comparison  with  the  gruffer 
tones  of  the  other  patients  and  I  marvelled  that  the  owner 
of  this  polite,  mannerly,  high-pitched  voice  could  be 
known  by  any  such  name  as  "Red  Shannahan."  I  deter- 
mined upon  further  investigation. 

"Red  Shannahan,  what  work  did  you  do  before  you 
became  a  United  States  soldier?"  I  asked. 

"Mr.  Gibbons,"  came  the  reply,  almost  girlishly,  "I 
am  from  Baltimore.  I  drove  the  wagon  for  Mr.  Bishop, 
the  canary  bird  and  gold  fish  man." 

All  that  had  happened  to  this  canary  bird  fancier  and 
gold  fish  tamer  was  that  he  had  killed  two  Germans  and 
captured  three  before  they  got  him. 

Among  those  who  came  to  visit  us  in  that  ward,  there 
appeared  one  day  a  man  I  had  not  seen  in  many  years. 
When  I  knew  him  last  he  had  been  a  sport-loving  fellow- 
student  of  mine  at  college  and  one  of  the  fastest,  hard- 
est-fighting ends  our  'Varsity  football  squad  ever  had. 
Knowing  this  disposition  of  the  man,  I  was  quite  sur- 
prised to  see  on  the  sleeve  of  his  khaki  service  uniform 
the  red  shield  and  insignia  of  the  Knights  of  Columbus. 

I  was  well  aware  of  the  very  valuable  work  done  by 
this  institution  wherever  American  soldiers  are  in  France, 
but  I  could  not  imagine  this  former  college  chum  of 
mine  being  engaged  in  such  work  instead  of  being  in 
the  service.  He  noticed  my  silence  and  he  said,  "Gib, 
do  you  remember  that  game  with  the  Indians  on 
Thanksgiving  Day?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "they  hurt  your  leg  that  day." 

"Yes,"  replied  my  old  college  mate,  whom  we  might 
as  well  call  MacDougal  inasmuch  as  that  was  not  his 
name.  "Yes,  they  took  that  leg  away  from  me  three 
years  later." 

I  knew  then  why  MacDougal  was  with  the  K.  C.  and 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  349 

I  wondered  what  service  he  would  perform  in  our  ward 
in  the  name  of  his  organisation.  I  soon  found  out. 
Without  introduction,  MacDougal  proceeded  to  the  bed- 
side of  Dan  Bailey,  the  Infantryman  with  one  leg  off, 
who  was  lying  in  a  bed  on  my  right.  MacDougal  walked 
back  and  forth  two  or  three  times  past  the  foot  of 
Bailey's  bed. 

"How  does  that  look?"  he  said  to  Bailey.  "Do  I 
walk  all  right?" 

"Looks  all  right  to  me,"  replied  Bailey;  "what's  the 
matter  with  you?" 

McDougal  then  began  jumping,  skipping  and  hopping 
up  and  down  and  across  the  floor  at  the  foot  of  Bailey's 
bed.  Finishing  these  exercises  breathlessly,  he  again  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  sufferer  with  one  leg. 

"How  did  that  look?"  he  said.  "Did  that  look  all 
right?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  the  matter  with  you,"  replied 
Bailey,  "unless  it  is  that  you're  in  the  wrong  ward." 

Then  MacDougal  stood  close  by  Bailey's  bedside  where 
the  boy  with  one  leg  could  watch  him  closely.  Mac- 
Dougal took  his  cane  and  struck  his  own  right  leg  a 
resounding  whack.  And  we  all  knew  by  the  sound  of 
the  blow  that  the  leg  he  struck  was  wooden. 

In  that  peculiar  way  did  MacDougal  bring  into  the 
life  of  Dan  Bailey  new  interest  and  new  prospects.  He 
proved  to  Dan  Bailey  that  for  the  rest  of  his  life  Dart 
Bailey  with  an  artificial  limb  could  walk  about  and  jump 
and  skip  and  hop  almost  as  well  as  people  with  two 
good  legs.  That  was  the  service  performed  by  the 
Knights  of  Columbus  in  our  ward. 

There  was  one  other  organisation  in  that  hospital  that 
deserves  mention.  It  was  the  most  exclusive  little  clique 
and  rather  inclined  towards  snobbishness.     I  was  a  mem- 


350 


"AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


ber  of  it.  We  used  to  look  down  on  the  ordinary- 
wounded  cases  that  had  two  eyes.  We  enjoyed,  either 
rightly  or  wrongly,  a  feeling  of  superiority.  Death 
comes  mighty  close  when  it  nicks  an  eye  out  of  your 
head.  All  of  the  one-eyed  cases  and  some  of  the  no- 
eyed  cases  received  attention  in  one  certain  ward,  and  it 
was  to  this  ward  after  my  release  from  the  hospital  that 
I  used  to  go  every  day  for  fresh  dressings  for  my 
wounds.  Every  time  I  entered  the  ward  a  delegation 
of  one-eyed  would  greet  me  as  a  comrade  and  present 
me  with  a  petition.  In  this  petition  I  was  asked  and 
urged  to  betake  myself  to  the  hospital  library,  to  probe 
the  depths  of  the  encyclopaedias  and  from  their  wordy 
innards  tear  out  one  name  for  the  organisation  of  the 
one-eyed.  This  was  to  be  our  life  long  club,  they  said, 
and  the  insistence  was  that  the  name  above  all  should 
be  a  "classy"  name.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  after  much 
research  and  debate  one  name  was  accepted  and  from  that 
time  on  we  became  known  as  the  Cyclops  Club. 

A  wonderful  Philadelphia  surgeon  was  in  charge  of 
the  work  in  that  ward.  Hundreds  of  American  soldiers 
for  long  years  after  the  war  will  thank  him  for  seeing. 
I  thank  him  for  my  sight  now.  His  name  is  Dr.  Fewell. 
The  greatest  excitement  in  the  ward  prevailed  one  day 
when  one  of  the  doctor's  assistants  entered  carrying 
several  flat,  hard  wood  cases,  each  of  them  about  a  yard 
square.  The  cases  opened  like  a  book  and  were  laid  flat 
on  the  table.  Their  interiors  were  lined  with  green  vel- 
vet and  there  on  the  shallow  receptacles  in  the  green 
velvet  were  just  dozens  of  eyes,  gleaming  unblinkingly 
up  at  us. 

A  shout  went  up  and  down  the  ward  and  the  Cyclo- 
pians  gathered  around  the  table.     There  was  a  grand 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  351 

grab  right  and  left.  Everybody  tried  to  get  a  handful. 
There  was  some  difficulty  reassorting  the  grabs.  Of 
course,  it  happened,  that  fellows  that  really  needed  blue 
or  grey  ones,  managed  to  get  hold  of  black  ones  or 
brown  ones,  and  some  confusion  existed  while  they 
traded  back  and  forth  to  match  up  proper  colours,  shades 
and  sizes. 

One  Cyclopian  was  not  in  on  the  grab.  In  addition 
to  having  lost  one  eye,  he  had  received  about  a  pound 
and  a  half  of  assorted  hardware  in  his  back,  and  these 
flesh  wounds  confined  him  to  his  bed.  He  had  been 
sleeping  and  he  suddenly  awoke  during  the  distribution 
of  the  glassware.  He  apparently  became  alarmed  with 
the  thought  that  he  was  going  to  be  left  out  of  considera- 
tion. I  saw  him  sit  bolt  upright  in  bed  as  he  shouted 
clear  across  the  ward  : 

"Hey,  Doc,  pass  the  grapes." 

When  it  became  possible  for  me  to  leave  that  hospital, 
I  went  to  another  one  three  blocks  away.  This  was 
a  remarkable  institution  that  had  been  maintained  by 
wealthy  Americans  living  in  France  before  the  war.  I 
was  assigned  to  a  room  on  the  third  floor — a  room  ad- 
joining a  sun  parlour,  overlooking  a  beautiful  Old  World 
garden  with  a  lagoon,  rustic  bridges,  trees  and  shrubbery. 

In  early  June,  when  that  flood  of  American  wounded 
had  come  back  from  the  Marne,  it  had  become  necessary 
to  erect  hospital  ward  tents  in  the  garden  and  there  a 
number  of  our  wounded  were  cared  for.  I  used  to 
notice  that  every  day  two  orderlies  would  carry  out  from 
one  of  the  small  tents  a  small  white  cot  on  which  there 
lay  an  American  soldier.  They  would  place  the  cot 
on  the  green  grass  where  the  sunlight,  finding  its  way 
through  the  leafy  branches  of  the  tree,  would  shine  down 


352  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

upon  the  form  of  this  young — this  very  young — fighter 
from  the  U.  S.  A. 

He  was  just  two  months  over  seventeen  years  of  age. 
He  had  deliberately  and  patriotically  lied  one  year  on 
his  age  in  order  that  he  might  go  to  France  and  fight 
beneath  our  flag. 

He  was  wounded,  but  his  appearance  did  not  indicate 
how  badly.  There  were  no  bandages  about  his  head, 
arms  or  body.  There  was  nothing  to  suggest  the  sever- 
ity of  his  injuries — nothing  save  his  small  round  spot  on 
the  side  of  his  head  where  the  surgeons  had  shaved  away 
the  hair — just  a  small  round  spot  that  marked  the  place 
where  a  piece  of  German  hand-grenade  had  touched  the 
skull. 

This  little  fellow  had  forgotten  everything.  He  could 
not  remember — all  had  slipped  his  mind  save  for  the 
three  or  four  lines  of  one  little  song,  which  was  the  sole 
remaining  memory  that  bridged  the  gap  of  four  thousand 
miles  between  him  and  his  home  across  the  sea. 

Over  and  over  again  he  would  sing  it  all  day  long  as 
he  lay  there  on  the  cot  with  the  sunlight  streaming  all 
over  him.  His  sweet  boyish  voice  would  come  up 
through  the  leafy  branches  to  the  windows  of  my  room. 

I  frequently  noticed  my  nurse  standing  there  at  the 
window  listening  to  him.  Then  I  would  notice  that 
her  shoulders  would  shake  convulsively  and  she  would 
walk  out  of  the  room,  wet  eyed  but  silent.  And  the 
song  the  little  fellow  sang  was  this : 

"Just  try  to  picture  me 
Back  home  in  Tennessee, 
Right  by  my  mother's  knee 
She  thinks  the  world  of  me. 
She  will  be  there  to  meet  me 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  353 

With  a  hug  and  kiss  she'll  greet  me, 
When  I  get  back,  when  I  get  back 
To  my  home  in  Tennessee." 

American  doctors  and  American  nurses,  both  by  their 
skill  and  care  and  tenderness,  nursed  that  little  fellow 
back  to  complete  recovery,  made  him  remember  every- 
thing and  shortly  afterward,  well  and  cured,  he  started 
back,  safe  and  sound,  to  his  home  in  Tennessee. 

Nothing  I  can  ever  say  will  overstate  my  estimation 
of  the  credit  that  is  deserved  by  our  American  doctors 
and  nurses  for  the  great  work  they  are  doing.  I  am  not 
alone  in  knowing  this.  I  call  to  witness  any  Canadian, 
Englishman  or  Frenchman,  that,  if  he  is  wounded,  when 
in  the  ambulance,  he  usually  voices  one  request,  "Take 
me  to  an  American  hospital." 

I  knew  of  one  man  who  entered  that  United  States 
Military  Base  Hospital  near  Paris,  with  one  bullet 
through  the  shoulder,  another  through  an  arm,  an  eye 
shot  out  and  a  compound  fracture  of  the  skull,  and  those 
American  doctors  and  nurses  by  their  attention  and 
skilfulness  made  it  possible  for  him  to  step  back  into 
boots  and  breeches  and  walk  out  of  the  hospital  in  ten 
days. 

It  so  happens  that  I  am  somewhat  familiar  with  the 
details  in  that  case  because  I  am  the  man. 


354  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

CHAPTER  XIX 

"JULY     1 8TH" THE    TURN    OF    THE    TIDE 

Through  the  steady  growth  of  Marshal  Foch's  re- 
serves, by  the  speedy  arrival  of  American  forces,  the 
fourth  German  offensive  of  1918,  the  personally  di- 
rected effort  launched  by  the  Crown  Prince  on  May 
27th,  had  been  brought  to  a  standstill. 

The  German  thrust  toward  Paris  had  been  stopped 
by  the  Americans  at  Chateau-Thierry  and  in  the  Bois 
de  Belleau.  It  would  be  an  injustice  not  to  record  the 
great  part  played  in  that  fighting  by  the  French  Army 
attacked,  but  it  would  be  equally  unjust  not  to  specify 
as  the  French  have  gallantly  done,  that  it  was  the  timely 
arrival  of  American  strength  that  swung  the  balance 
against  the  enemy.  For  the  remainder  of  that  month 
of  June  and  up  to  the  middle  of  July,  the  fighting  was 
considered  local  in  its  character. 

The  German  offensive  had  succeeded  in  pushing  for- 
ward the  enemy  front  until  it  formed  a  loop  extending 
southward  from  the  Aisne  to  the  Valley  of  the  Marne. 
This  salient  was  called  the  Chateau-Thierry  pocket.  The 
line  ran  southward  from  a  point  east  of  Soissons  to 
Chateau-Thierry,  where  it  touched  the  Marne,  thence 
eastward  along  both  sides  of  the  river  to  the  vicinity  of 
Oeuilly  where  it  recrossed  the  Marne  and  extended  north- 
ward to  points  beyond  Rheims. 

Chateau-Thierry  was  thus  the  peak  of  the  German 
push — the  apex  of  the  triangle  pointing  toward  Paris. 
The  enemy  supplied  its  forces  in  this  peak  principally 
by   the   road   that   ran   southward    from   Soissons   and 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  355 

touched  the  Marne  at  Chateau-Thierry.  To  the  west 
of  this  road  and  just  south  of  the  city  of  Soissons,  is 
the  forest  of  Villers-Cotterets.  The  enemy  occupied  the 
northern  and  eastern  limits  of  the  forest  and  the  re- 
mainder of  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the  French. 

This  forest  has  always  been  considered  one  of  the  sen- 
tinels of  Paris.  It  was  located  on  the  right  flank  of 
the  German  salient.  It  was  a  menace  to  that  flank,  and 
offered  a  most  attractive  opportunity  for  an  Allied  coun- 
ter offensive  from  that  direction.  The  Germans  were 
not  unmindful  of  this. 

The  enemy  knew  that  in  the  forest  of  Villers-Cot- 
terets it  would  be  possible  for  Marshal  Foch  to  mobil- 
ise his  much-feared  reserves  by  taking  advantage  of  the 
natural  screen  provided  by  the  forest.  That  Foch  re- 
serve still  remained  a  matter  for  enemy  consideration 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  successive  German  offensive 
since  March  21st  had  met  with  considerable  success  with 
regard  to  the  acquisition  of  territory.  The  Germans, 
however,  had  been  unable  to  ascertain  whether  Foch 
had  been  forced  to  bring  his  reserves  into  the  fight. 

The  situation  demanded  a  full  realisation  by  the  enemy 
of  the  possible  use  of  this  reserve  at  any  time  and  they 
knew  that  their  lines  in  Villers-Cotterets  Forest  offered 
an  ever  present  invitation  for  the  sudden  application  of 
this  reserve  strength.  Their  lines  at  that  point  were 
necessarily  weak  by  the  superiority  of  the  Allied  posi- 
tion and,  as  a  consequence,  the  Germans  guarded  this 
weak  spot  by  holding  in  reserve  behind  the  line  a  num- 
ber of  divisions  of  the  Prussian  Guard. 

For  the  same  reason,  the  enemy  maintained  constant 
observation  of  the  French  position.  Their  planes  would 
fly  over  the  forest  every  day  taking  photographs.  They 
sought  to  discover  any  evidences  indicating  that  Foch 


356  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

might  be  preparing  to  strike  a  blow  from  that  place. 
They  made  careful  note  of  the  traffic  along  the  roads 
through  the  forest.  They  maintained  a  careful  watch 
to  ascertain  whether  new  ammunition  dumps  were  be- 
ing concealed  under  the  trees.  Their  observers  tried  to 
ascertain  whether  any  additional  hospital  arrangements 
had  been  made  by  the  French  at  that  point.  Any  of 
these  things  would  have  indicated  that  the  French  were 
preparing  to  strike  through  the  forest  but  the  Germans 
found  nothing  to  support  their  suspicions. 

Nevertheless,  they  maintained  their  lines  at  maximum 
strength.  A  belief  existed  among  the  German  High 
Command  that  an  attack  might  be  made  on  July  4th, 
out  of  consideration  to  American  sentiment.  When  the 
attack  did  not  develop  on  that  day,  they  then  thought 
that  the  French  might  possibly  spring  the  blow  on  July 
14th,  in  celebration  of  their  own  national  fete  day.  And 
again  they  were  disappointed  in  their  surmises. 

This  protracted  delay  of  an  impending  blow  wor- 
ried the  enemy.  The  Germans  realised  full  well  that 
they  were  fighting  against  time.  Their  faith  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  their  submarines  to  prevent  American  strength 
from  reaching  the  line,  had  been  abandoned.  They  now 
knew  that  every  day  that  passed  meant  just  that  many 
more  American  soldiers  arriving  in  France,  and  the  con- 
sequent strengthening  of  the  Allied  forces  during  a  sea- 
son when  the  Germans,  through  their  repeated  offen- 
sives, were  suffering  terrible  losses  and  were  conse- 
quently growing  weaker. 

So,  on  July  14th,  when  the  Allied  counter-offensive 
had  still  failed  to  materialise,  the  German  forces,  by  the 
necessity  for  time,  moved  to  a  sudden  and  faulty  de- 
cision. They  convinced  themselves  that  they  had  over- 
estimated the  Allied   strength.     They  accepted  the  be- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  357 

lief  that  the  reason  Foch  had  not  attacked  was  because 
he  did  not  have  sufficient  strength  to  attack.  With  this, 
then,  as  a  basis  for  their  plans,  they  immediately 
launched  another  offensive,  hoping  that  this  might  be 
the  one  in  which  they  could  deliver  the  final  blow. 

This  action  began  on  Monday  morning,  July  15th, 
and  extended  from  Chateau-Thierry  eastward  along  the 
valley  of  the  Marne,  northward  to  Rheims  and  thence 
eastward.  By  a  remarkable  coup,  one  small  patrol  of 
French  and  Americans  deprived  the  enemy  of  the  element 
of  surprise  in  the  attack.  On  the  morning  of  the  previ- 
ous day,  this  patrol  successfully  raided  the  enemy  lines 
to  the  east  of  Rheims  and  brought  back  prisoners  from 
whom  it  was  learned  that  the  Germans  intended  strik- 
ing on  the  following  morning.  The  objectives  of  the 
offensive  were  the  French  cities  of  fipernay  and  Chalons. 
The  accomplishment  of  this  effort  would  have  placed  the 
Rheims  salient  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy  and  brought 
the  German  lines  southward  to  positions  straddling  the 
Marne,  down  the  valley  of  which  they  would  thus  be 
able  to  launch  another  offensive  on  a  straight  road  to 
Paris. 

The  Germans  needed  considerable  strength  for  this 
new  effort.  To  muster  the  shock  divisions  necessary  for 
the  attack,  they  had  to  weaken  their  lines  elsewhere. 
The  first  reserves  that  they  drew  for  this  offensive  were 
the  Prussian  Guard  divisions  which  they  had  been  hold- 
ing in  readiness  in  back  of  the  weak  spot  in  their  line 
in  the  Villers-Cotterets  Forest.  Those  divisions  were 
hurriedly  transported  across  the  base  of  the  V-shaped 
salient  and  thrown  into  the  attack  to  the  east  and  the 
southwest  of  Rheims. 

The  Germans  found  the  Allied  line  prepared  to  re- 
ceive them.     Their  attacking  waves  were  mowed  down 


358  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

with  terrific  machine  gun  fire  from  French  and  Amer- 
ican gunners,  while  at  the  same  time  heavy  artillery 
barrages  played  upon  the  German  back  areas  with  deadly 
effect  in  the  massed  ranks  of  the  reserves.  The  fighting 
was  particularly  vicious.  It  was  destined  to  be  the  Ger- 
mans' last  action  of  a  grand  offensive  nature  in  the  en- 
tire war. 

On  the  line  east  of  Rheims,  the  German  assault  was 
particularly  strong  in  one  sector  where  it  encountered 
the  sturdy  ranks  of  the  Rainbow  Division  of  United 
States  National  Guardsmen,  drawn  from  a  dozen  or  more 
different  states  in  the  Union.  Regiments  from  Alabama 
and  New  York  held  the  front  line.  Iowa  and  Ohio  were 
close  in  support.  In  the  support  positions,  sturdy 
youngsters  from  Illinois,  Indiana,  and  Minnesota 
manned  the  American  artillery. 

The  French  general  commanding  the  sector  had  not 
considered  it  possible  that  this  comparatively  small 
American  force  could  withstand  the  first  onslaught  of 
the  Germans.  He  had  made  elaborate  plans  for  a  with- 
drawal to  high  ground  two  or  three  miles  southward, 
from  which  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  resist  the  enemy  to 
greater  advantage.  But  all  day  long,  through  the  15th 
and  the  16th  and  the  17th  of  July,  those  American  lines 
held,  and  the  advancing  waves  of  German  storm  troops 
melted  before  our  guns.  Anticipating  a  renewal  of  the 
attack  on  the  next  day,  General  Gouraud  issued  an  or- 
der on  the  evening  of  July  i7th.     It  read  : 

"To  the  French  and  American  Soldiers  of  the  Army. 

"We  may  be  attacked  from  one  moment  to  an- 
other. You  all  feel  that  a  defensive  battle  was 
never  engaged  in  under  more  favourable  conditions. 
We  are  warned,  and  we  are  on  our  guard.     We 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  359 

have  received  strong  reinforcements  of  infantry  and 
artillery.  You  will  fight  on  ground,  which,  by  your 
assiduous  labour,  you  have  transformed  into  a  for- 
midable fortress,  into  a  fortress  which  is  invincible 
if  the  passages  are  well  guarded. 

"The  bombardment  will  be  terrible.  You  will 
endure  it  without  weakness.  The  attack  in  a  cloud 
of  dust  and  gas  will  be  fierce  but  your  positions  and 
your  armament  are  formidable. 

"The  strong  and  brave  hearts  of  free  men  beat 
in  your  breast.  None  will  look  behind,  none  will 
give  way.  Every  man  will  have  but  one  thought 
— 'Kill  them,  kill  them  in  abundance,  until  they 
have  had  enough.'  And  therefore  your  General 
tells  you  it  will  be  a  glorious  day." 

And  so  the  line  held,  although  the  French  General  had 
in  preparation  the  plans  for  withdrawal.  When,  at  the 
end  of  the  third  day,  the  American  line  still  occupied 
the  same  position,  the  French  General  found  that  his 
labour  in  preparing  the  plans  for  withdrawal  had  been 
for  nothing.  He  is  reported  to  have  thrown  his  hands 
up  in  the  air  and  remarked,  "There  doesn't  seem  to  be 
anything  to  do  but  to  let  the  war  be  fought  out  where 
the  New  York  Irish  and  the  Alabamans  want  to  fight 
it." 

There  was  one  humorous  incident  worthy  of  record  in 
that  fighting.  Great  rivalry  existed  between  the  New 
York  regiment  and  the  Alabama  regiment,  both  of  which 
happened  to  be  units  of  the  same  brigade.  Both  the 
New  Yorkers  and  the  Alabamans  had  a  mutual  hatred 
for  the  German  but,  in  addition  to  that,  each  of  them 
was  possessed  with  a  mutual  dislike  for  the  other.  There 
had  been  frequent  clashes  of  a  more  or  less  sportsman- 


360  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

like  and  fistic  nature  between  men  from  both  of  the  regi- 
ments. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  fighting,  the  Germans  had 
sent  over  low-flying  airplanes  which  skimmed  the  tops 
of  our  trenches  and  sprayed  them  with  machine  gun 
fire.  A  man  from  Alabama,  who  had  grown  up  from 
childhood  with  a  squirrel  rifle  under  his  arm,  accom- 
plished something  that  had  never  been  done  before  in  the 
war.  From  his  position  in  a  trench,  he  took  careful 
aim  with  his  rifle  and  brought  down  one  of  the  German 
planes.  It  was  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  West- 
ern Front  that  a  rifleman  on  the  ground  had  done  this. 

When  the  colonel  of  the  New  York  regiment  heard 
this,  he  was  wild  with  envy  and  let  it  be  known  that 
there  would  be  trouble  brewing  unless  his  regiment  at 
least  equalled  the  feat.  So,  on  the  following  day,  an 
Irishman  in  the  ranks  stood  up  and  brought  one  Ger- 
man plane  down  to  the  credit  of  the  old  Sixty-ninth. 

To  the  southwest  of  Rheims,  Germans,  who  succeeded 
in  breaking  through  the  lines  at  one  place  on  the  south 
banks  of  the  Marne,  encountered  American  reinforce- 
ments and  were  annihilated  to  the  number  of  five  thou- 
sand. At  no  place  did  the  enemy  meet  with  the  success 
desired. 

The  Germans  had  launched  their  attack  at  six  o'clock 
on  the  morning  of  July  15th.  At  Vaux  their  demon- 
stration was  considered  a  feint,  but  along  the  Marne  to 
the  east  of  Chateau-Thierry,  between  Fossy  and  Mezy, 
the  assaulting  waves  advanced  with  fury  and  determina- 
tion. At  one  place,  twenty-five  thousand  of  the  enemy 
crossed  the  river,  and  the  small  American  forces  in  front 
of  them  at  that  place  were  forced  to  retire  on  Conde-en- 
Bire.     In  a  counter  attack,  we  succeeded  in  driving  fif- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  361 

teen  thousand  of  them  back  to  the  north  bank,  the  re- 
maining ten  thousand  representing  casualties  with  the 
exception  of  fifteen  hundred,  who  were  captured. 

Further  eastward,  the  Germans  established  bridge- 
head positions  on  the  south  bank  of  the  river  at  Dormas. 
The  enemy  enjoyed  a  minor  success  in  an  attack  on  the 
line  near  Bligny  to  the  southwest  of  Rheims,  where  Ital- 
ian troops  fought  with  remarkable  valour.  Everywhere 
else  the  lines  held  solid  and  upon  the  close  of  that  first 
night,  Marshal  Foch  said,  "I  am  satisfied — Je  suis  con- 
tent." 

At  dawn  the  following  day,  the  enemy's  futile  efforts 
were  resumed  along  the  river  east  of  Chateau-Thierry. 
The  Germans  suffered  appalling  losses  in  their  efforts  to 
place  pontoon  bridges  at  Gland  and  at  Mareuil-le-Port. 
St.  Agnan  and  La  Chapelle  Monthodon  fell  into  the 
hands  of  Americans  on  the  same  day. 

On  the  17th,  the  enemy's  endeavours  to  reach  Festigny 
on  both  banks  of  the  river  came  to  naught,  but  to  the 
southeast  of  Rheims,  his  assaulting  waves  reached  the 
northern  limits  of  Montagne  Forest.  The  Germans  were 
trying  to  pinch  out  the  Rheims  salient.  This  was  the 
condition  of  the  opposing  lines  on  the  night  of  July  17th, 
— the  night  that  preceded  the  day  on  which  the  tide  of 
victory  turned  for  the  Allies. 

Foch  was  now  ready  to  strike.  The  Allied  Com- 
mander-in-Chief had  decided  to  deliver  his  blow  on  the 
right  flank  of  the  German  salient.  The  line  chosen  for 
the  Allied  assault  was  located  between  a  point  south  of 
Soissons  and  Chateau-Thierry.  It  represented  a  front 
of  some  twenty-five  miles  extending  southwa/d  from  the 
valley  of  the  Aisne  to  the  Marne.  Villers-Cotterets 
Forest  was  the  key  position  for  the  Allies. 

It  was  from  out  that  forest  that  the  full  strength  of 


362  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

the  blow  was  to  be  delivered.  To  make  the  blow  effec- 
tive at  that  most  vital  point,  Marshal  Foch  needed  a 
strong  and  dependable  assaulting  force.  He  needed 
three  divisions  of  the  hardest  fighting  soldiers  that  he 
could  get.  He  had  a  considerable  army  to  select  from. 
As  Commander-in-Chief  of  all  the  Allied  armies,  he  was 
in  command  of  all  of  the  British  army,  all  of  the  French 
army,  all  of  the  American  army,  the  Italian,  the  Bel- 
gian,— all  of  the  military  forces  of  the  Allied  nations  of 
the  world.  Marshal  Foch's  command  numbered  eleven 
million  bayonets. 

The  Commander-in-Chief  had  all  of  these  veteran 
fighting  men  from  which  he  could  select  the  three  divi- 
sions necessary  to  deliver  this  blow  upon  which  the  civ- 
ilisation of  the  world  depended. 

The  first  division  he  chose  was  the  Foreign  Legion 
of  the  French  army.  In  four  years  of  bloody  fighting, 
the  Foreign  Legion,  composed  of  soldiers  of  fortune 
from  every  country  in  the  world,  had  never  been  absent 
in  an  attack.  It  had  lived  up  thoroughly  to  its  repu- 
tation as  the  most  fearless  unit  of  shock  troops  in  the 
French  army. 

And  then  for  the  other  two  divisions  that  were  needed, 
Marshal  Foch  selected,  from  all  the  eleven  million  men 
under  his  command,  the  First  and  the  Second  Regular 
United  States  Army  Divisions.  The  Second  Division 
included  the  immortal  Brigade  of  United  States  Ma- 
rines, that  had  covered  themselves  with  glory  in  the 
Bois  de  Belleau. 

It  was  a  great  distinction  for  those  two  American  di- 
visions to  have  thus  been  selected  to  play  such  a  vital 
part  in  the  entire  war.  It  was  an  honour  that  every 
officer  and  man  in  both  divisions  felt  keenly. 

I  have  in  my  map  case  a  torn  and  much  folded  little 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  363 

piece  of  paper.  I  received  it  that  night  of  July  17th  in 
Villers-Cotterets  Forest.  A  similar  piece  of  paper  was 
received  by  every  officer  in  those  two  American  divi- 
sions. To  me  this  piece  of  paper  represents  the  order 
which  resulted  in  victory  for  the  Allied  world.    It  reads : 

Headquarters  Third  Army  Corps  American  Expedition- 
ary Forces, 

France,  July  17,  19 18 
Memorandum: 

The  Third  Corps  of  the  American  Expeditionary 
Forces  has  been  created  and  consists  of  the  1st.  and  2nd. 
Divisions,  two  divisions  that  are  known  throughout 
France. 

Officers  and  men  of  the  Third  Corps,  you  have  been 
deemed  worthy  to  be  placed  beside  the  best  veteran 
French  troops.  See  that  you  prove  worthy.  Remember 
that  in  what  is  now  coming  you  represent  the  whole 
American  nation. 

R.  L.  Bullard, 
Major  General, 
Commanding  3rd.  Corps. 

The  German  planes  flying  high  over  Villers-Cotter- 
ets Forest  all  day  during  the  17th,  had  seen  nothing. 
The  appearance  of  all  the  myriad  roads  that  cross  and 
recross  the  forest  in  all  directions  was  normal.  But  that 
night  things  began  to  happen  in  the  forest. 

For  once  at  least,  the  elements  were  favourable  to 
our  cause.  There  was  no  moon.  The  night  was  very 
dark  and  under  the  trees  the  blackness  seemed  impen- 
etrable. A  heavy  downpour  of  rain  began  and  although 
it  turned  most  of  the  roads  into  mud,  the  leafy  roof  of 
the  forest  held  much  of  the  moisture  and  offered  some 


364  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

protection  to  the  thousands  of  men  who  spent  the  night 
beneath  it.  Thunder  rolled  as  I  had  never  heard  it  roll 
in  France  before.  The  sound  drowned  the  occasional 
boom  of  distant  cannon.  At  intervals,  terrific  crashes 
would  be  followed  by  blinding  flashes  of  lightning  as 
nature's  bolts  cut  jagged  crevices  in  the  sombre  sky  and 
vented  their  fury  upon  some  splintered  giant  of  the  for- 
est. 

The  immediate  front  was  silent — comparatively  si- 
lent if  one  considered  the  din  of  the  belligerent  ele- 
ments. In  the  opposing  front  lines  in  the  northern  and 
eastern  limits  of  the  forest,  German  and  Frenchmen 
alike  huddled  in  their  rude  shelters  to  escape  the  rain. 

Then,  along  every  road  leading  through  the  forest  to 
the  north  and  to  the  east,  streams  of  traffic  began  to 
pour.  All  of  it  was  moving  forward  toward  the  front. 
No  traffic  bound  for  the  rear  was  permitted.  Every 
inch  of  available  road  space  was  vitally  necessary  for 
the  forces  in  movement.  The  roads  that  usually  ac- 
commodated one  line  of  vehicles  moving  forward  and 
one  line  moving  to  the  rear,  now  represented  two  streams 
— solid  streams — moving  forward.  In  those  streams 
were  gun  carriages,  caissons,  limbers,  ammunition  carts 
and  grunting  tractors  hauling  large  field  pieces. 

In  the  gutters  on  either  side  of  the  road,  long  lines  of 
American  infantry  plodded  forward  through  the  mud 
and  darkness.  In  the  occasional  flash  of  a  light,  I  could 
see  that  they  were  equipped  for  heavy  fighting.  Many 
of  them  had  their  coats  off,  their  sleeves  rolled  up,  while 
beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on  the  young  faces  that  shown 
eager  beneath  the  helmets.  On  their  backs  they  carried, 
in  addition  to  their  cumbersome  packs,  extra  shoes  and 
extra  bandoliers  of  cartridges. 

From  their  shoulders  were  suspended  gas  masks  and 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  365 

haversacks.  Their  waists  were  girded  with  loaded  am- 
munition belts,  with  bayonet  hanging  at  the  left  side. 
Some  of  them  wore  grenade  aprons  full  of  explosives. 
Nearly  all  of  them  carried  their  rifles  or  machine  gun 
parts  slung  across  their  backs  as  they  leaned  forward  un- 
der their  burdens  and  plunged  wearily  on  into  the  mud 
and  darkness,  the  thunder  and  lightning,  the  world  des- 
tiny that  was  before  them.  Their  lines  were  interspersed 
with  long  files  of  plodding  mules  dragging  small,  two- 
wheeled,  narrow  gauge  carts  loaded  down  with  machine 
gun  ammunition. 

Under  the  trees  to  either  side  of  the  road,  there  was 
more  movement.  American  engineers  struggled  for- 
ward through  the  underbrush  carrying,  in  addition  to 
their  rifles  and  belts,  rolls  of  barbed  wire,  steel  posts, 
picks  and  shovels  and  axes  and  saws.  Beside  them 
marched  the  swarthy,  undersized,  bearded  veterans  of 
the  Foreign  Legion.  Further  still  under  the  trees, 
French  cavalry,  with  their  lances  slung  slantwise  across 
their  shoulders,  rode  their  horses  in  and  out  between  the 
giant  trunks. 

At  road  intersections,  I  saw  mighty  metal  monsters 
with  steel  plated  sides  splotched  with  green  and  brown 
and  red  paint.  These  were  the  French  tanks  that  were 
to  take  part  in  the  attack.  They  groaned  and  grunted 
on  their  grinding  gears  as  they  manoeuvred  about  for 
safer  progress.  In  front  of  each  tank  there  walked  a 
man  who  bore  suspended  from  his  shoulders  on  his  back, 
a  white  towel  so  that  the  unseen  directing  genius  in  the 
tank's  turrent  could  steer  his  way  through  the  under- 
brush and  crackling  saplings  that  were  crushed  down 
under  the  tread  of  this  modern  Juggernaut. 

There  was  no  confusion,  no  outward  manifestations 
of  excitement.     There  was  no  rattle  of  musketrv,  shout- 


366  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

ing  of  commands  or  waving  of  swords.  Officers  ad- 
dressed their  men  in  whispers.  There  was  order  and 
quiet  save  for  the  roll  of  thunder  and  the  eternal  drip- 
ping of  water  from  the  wet  leaves,  punctuated  now  and 
then  by  the  ear-splitting  crashes  that  followed  each 
nearby  flash  of  lightning. 

Through  it  all,  everything  moved.  It  was  a  mighty 
mobilisation  in  the  dark.  Everything  was  moving  in  one 
direction — forward — all  with  the  same  goal,  all  with  the 
same  urging,  all  with  the  same  determination,  all  with 
the  same  hope.  The  forest  was  ghostly  with  their 
forms.  It  seemed  to  me  that  night  in  the  damp  darkness 
of  Villers-Cotterets  Forest  that  every  tree  gave  birth  to 
a  man  for  France. 

All  night  long  the  gathering  of  that  sinister  synod  con- 
tinued. All  night  long  those  furtive  forces  moved 
through  the  forest.  They  passed  by  every  road,  by 
every  lane,  through  every  avenue  of  trees.  I  heard  the 
whispered  commands  of  the  officers.  I  heard  the  slosh- 
ing of  the  mud  under  foot  and  the  occasional  muf- 
fled curse  of  some  weary  marcher  who  would  slip  to  the 
ground  under  the  weight  of  his  burden;  and  I  knew,  all 
of  us  knew,  that  at  the  zero  hour,  4:35  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  all  hell  would  land  on  the  German  line,  and 
these  men  from  the  trees  would  move  forward  with  the 
fate  of  the  world  in  their  hands. 

There  was  some  suspense.  We  knew  that  if  the  Ger- 
mans had  had  the  slightest  advance  knowledge  about  that 
mobilisation  of  Foch's  reserves  that  night,  they  would 
have  responded  with  a  downpour  of  gas  shells,  which 
spreading  their  poisonous  fumes  under  the  wet  roof  of 
the  forest,  might  have  spelt  slaughter  for  70,000  men. 

But  the  enemy  never  knew.  They  never  even  sus- 
pected.    And   at  the  tick   of   4:35   A.M.,   the   heavens 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  367 

seemed  to  crash  asunder,  as  tons  and  tons  of  hot  metal 
sailed  over  the  forest,  bound  for  the  German  line. 

That  mighty  artillery  eruption  came  from  a  concentra- 
tion of  all  the  guns  of  all  calibres  of  all  the  Allies  that 
Foch  could  muster.  It  was  a  withering  blast  and  where 
it  landed  in  that  edge  of  the  forest  occupied  by  the  Ger- 
mans, the  quiet  of  the  dripping  black  night  was  sud- 
denly turned  into  a  roaring  inferno  of  death. 

Giant  tree  trunks  were  blow  high  into  the  air  and 
splintered  into  match-wood.  Heavy  projectiles  bearing 
delayed  action  fuses,  penetrated  the  ground  to  great 
depth  before  exploding  and  then,  with  the  expansion  of 
their  powerful  gases,  crushed  the  enemy  dug-outs  as  if 
they  were  egg  shells. 

Then  young  America — your  sons  and  your  brothers 
and  your  husbands,  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  French 
— went  over  the  top  to  victory. 

The  preliminary  barrage  moved  forward  crashing  the 
forest  down  about  it.  Behind  it  went  the  tanks  ambling 
awkwardly  but  irresistibly  over  all  obstructions.  Those 
Germans  that  had  not  been  killed  in  the  first  terrific  blast, 
came  up  out  of  their  holes  only  to  face  French  and 
American  bayonets,  and  the  "Kamerad"  chorus  began 
at  once. 

Our  assaulting  waves  moved  forward,  never  hesitat- 
ing, never  faltering.  Ahead  of  them  were  the  tanks  giv- 
ing special  attention  to  enemy  machine  gun  nests  that 
manifested  stubbornness.  We  did  not  have  to  charge 
those  death-dealing  nests  that  morning  as  we  did  in  the 
Bois  de  Belleau.  The  tanks  were  there  to  take  care  of 
them.  One  of  these  would  move  toward  a  nest,  flirt 
around  it  several  minutes  and  then  politely  sit  on  it.  It 
would  never  be  heard  from  thereafter. 

It  was  an  American  whirlwind  of  fighting  fury  that 


368  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

swept  the  Germans  in  front  of  it  early  that  morning. 
Aeroplanes  had  been  assigned  to  hover  over  the  advance 
and  make  reports  on  all  progress.  A  dense  mist  hanging 
over  the  forest  made  it  impossible  for  the  aviators  to 
locate  the  Divisional  Headquarters  to  which  they  were 
supposed  to  make  the  reports.  These  dense  clouds  of 
vapour  obscured  the  earth  from  the  eyes  of  the  airmen, 
but  with  the  rising  sun  the  mists  lifted. 

Being  but  a  month  out  of  the  hospital  and  having 
spent  a  rather  strenuous  night,  I  was  receiving  medical 
attention  at  daybreak  in  front  of  a  dressing  station  not 
far  from  the  headquarters  of  Major  General  Harbord 
commanding  the  Second  Division.  As  I  lay  there  look- 
ing up  through  the  trees,  I  saw  a  dark  speck  diving  from 
the  sky.  Almost  immediately  I  could  hear  the  hum  of 
its  motors  growing  momentarily  louder  as  it  neared  the 
earth.  I  thought  the  plane  was  out  of  control  and  ex- 
pected to  see  it  crash  to  the  ground  near  me. 

Several  hundred  feet  above  the  tree  tops,  it  flattened 
its  wings  and  went  into  an  easy  swoop  so  that  its  under- 
gear  seemed  barely  to  skim  the  uppermost  branches. 
The  machine  pursued  a  course  immediately  above  one 
of  the  roads.  Something  dropped  from  it.  It  was  a 
metal  cylinder  that  glistened  in  the  rays  of  the  morning 
sun.  Attached  to  it  was  a  long  streamer  of  fluttering 
white  material.  It  dropped  easily  to  the  ground  nearby. 
I  saw  an  American  signalman,  who  had  been  following 
its  descent,  pick  it  up.  He  opened  the  metal  container 
and  extracted  the  message  containing  the  first  aerial  ob- 
servations of  the  advance  of  the  American  lines.  It 
stated  that  large  numbers  of  prisoners  had  been  cap- 
tured and  were  bound  for  the  rear. 

Upon  receipt  of  this  information,  Division  Headquar- 
ters moved  forward  on  the  jump.     Long  before  noon 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  369 

General  Harbord,  close  behind  his  advancing  troops, 
opened  headquarters  in  the  shattered  farm  buildings  of 
Verte  Feuille,  the  first  community  centre  that  had  been 
taken  by  our  men  that  morning.  Prisoners  were  com- 
ing back  in  droves. 

I  encountered  one  column  of  disarmed  Germans 
marching  four  abreast  with  the  typical  attitude  of  a 
"Kamerad"  procession.  The  first  eight  of  the  prisoners 
carried  on  their  shoulders  two  rudely  constructed  litters 
made  from  logs  and  blankets.  A  wounded  American 
was  on  one  litter  and  a  wounded  Frenchman  on  the 
other. 

A  number  of  German  knapsacks  had  been  used  to  ele- 
vate the  shoulders  of  both  of  the  wounded  men  so  that 
they  occupied  positions  half  sitting  and  half  reclining. 
Both  of  them  were  smoking  cigarettes  and  chatting  gaily 
as  they  rode  high  and  mighty  on  the  shoulders  of  their 
captives,  while  behind  them  stretched  a  regal  retinue  of 
eight  hundred  more. 

As  this  column  proceeded  along  one  side  of  the  road, 
the  rest  of  the  roadway  was  filled  with  men,  guns  and 
equipment  all  moving  forward.  Scottish  troops  in  kilts 
swung  by  and  returned  the  taunts  which  our  men  laugh- 
ingly directed  at  their  kilts  and  bare  knees. 

Slightly  wounded  Americans  came  back  guarding  con- 
voys of  prisoners.  They  returned  loaded  with  relics  of 
the  fighting.  It  was  said  that  day  that  German  prison- 
ers had  explained  that  in  their  opinion,  the  British  were 
in  the  war  because  they  hated  Germany  and  that  the 
French  were  in  the  war  because  the  war  was  in  France, 
but  that  Americans  seemed  to  be  fighting  to  collect  sou- 
veniers. 

I  saw  one  of  these  American  souvenier  collectors 
bound  for  the  rear.    In  stature  he  was  one  of  the  short- 


37o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

est  men  I  had  ever  seen  in  our  uniform.  He  must  have 
spent  long  years  in  the  cavalry,  because  he  was  fright- 
fully bowlegged.  He  was  herding  in  front  of  him  two 
enormous  German  prisoners  who  towered  head  and 
shoulders  above  him. 

He  manifested  a  confidence  in  his  knowledge  of  all 
prisoners  and  things  German.  Germans  were  "foreign- 
ers." "Foreigners"  spoke  a  foreign  language.  There- 
fore to  make  a  German  understand  you,  it  was  only  nec- 
essary to  speak  with  them  in  a  foreign  language.  French 
was  a  foreign  language  so  the  bowlegged  American 
guard  made  use  of  his  limited  knowledge. 

"Allay !  Allay !  Allay  veet  t'-ell  outer  here,"  he  urged 
his  charges. 

He  was  wearing  his  helmet  back  on  his  head  so  that 
there  was  exposed  a  shock  of  black,  blood-matted  hair 
on  his  forehead.  A  white  bandage  ran  around  his  fore- 
head and  on  the  right  side  of  his  face  a  strip  of  cotton 
gauze  connected  with  another  white  bandage  around  his 
neck.  There  was  a  red  stain  on  the  white  gauze  over  the 
right  cheek. 

His  face  was  rinsed  with  sweat  and  very  dirty.  In 
one  hand  he  carried  a  large  chunk  of  the  black  German 
war  bread — once  the  property  of  his  two  prisoners. 
With  his  disengaged  hand  he  conveyed  masses  of  the 
food  to  his  lips  which  were  circled  with  a  fresco  of 
crumbs. 

His  face  was  wreathed  in  a  remarkable  smile — a  smile 
of  satisfaction  that  caused  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to 
turn  upward  toward  his  eyes.  I  also  smiled  when  I 
made  a  casual  inventory  of  the  battlefield  loot  with  which 
he  had  decorated  his  person.  Dangling  by  straps  from 
his  right  hip  were  five  holsters  containing  as  many  Ger- 
man automatic  pistols  of  the  Lueger  make,  worth  about 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT'' 


37i 


$35  apiece.  Suspended  from  his  right  shoulder  by  straps 
to  his  left  hip,  were  six  pairs  of  highly  prized  German 
field  glasses,  worth  about  $100  apiece.  I  acquired  a  bet- 
ter understanding  of  his  contagious  smile  of  property 
possession  when  I  inquired  his  name  and  his  rank.  He 
replied : 

"Sergeant  Harry  Silverstein." 

Later,  attracted  by  a  blast  of  extraordinary  profan- 
ity, I  approached  one  of  our  men  who  was  seated  by  the 
roadside.  A  bullet  had  left  a  red  crease  across  his 
cheek  but  this  was  not  what  had  stopped  him.  The  hob- 
nail sole  of  his  shoe  had  been  torn  off  and  he  was  try- 
ing to  fasten  it  back  on  with  a  combination  of  straps. 
His  profane  denunciations  included  the  U.  S.  Quarter- 
master Department,  French  roads,  barbed  wire,  hot 
weather  and,  occasionally,  the  Germans. 

"This  sure  is  a  hell  of  a  mess,"  he  said,  "for  a  fel- 
low to  find  himself  in  this  fix  just  when  I  was  beginning 
to  catch  sight  of  'em.  I  enlisted  in  the  army  to  come  to 
France  to  kill  Germans  but  I  never  thought  for  one  min- 
ute they'd  bring  me  over  here  and  try  to  make  me  run 
'em  to  death.  What  we  need  is  greyhounds.  And  as 
usual  the  O.  M.  fell  down  again.  Why,  there  wasn't  a 
lassoe  in  our  whole  company." 

The  prisoners  came  back  so  fast  that  the  Intelligence 
Department  was  flooded.  The  divisional  intelligence  of- 
ficer asked  me  to  assist  in  the  interrogation  of  the  cap- 
tives.    I  questioned  some  three  hundred  of  them. 

An  American  sergeant  who  spoke  excellent  German, 
interrogated.  I  sat  behind  a  small  table  in  a  field  and 
the  sergeant  would  call  the  prisoners  forward  one  by  one. 
In  German  he  asked  one  captive  what  branch  of  the  serv- 
ice he  belonged  to.     The  prisoner  wishing  to  display  his 


372  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

knowledge  of  English  and  at  the  same  time  give  vent  to 
some  pride,  replied  in  English. 

"I  am  of  the  storm  troop,"  he  said. 

"Storm  troop?"  replied  the  American  sergeant,  "do 
you  know  what  we  are?  We  are  from  Kansas.  We 
are  Cycloners." 

Another  German  student  of  English  among  the  pris- 
oners was  represented  in  the  person  of  a  pompous  Ger- 
man major,  who,  in  spite  of  being  a  captive,  maintained 
all  the  dignity  of  his  rank.  He  stood  proudly  erect  and 
held  his  head  high.  He  wore  a  disgusted  look  on  his 
face,  as  though  the  surroundings  were  painful.  His 
uniform  was  well  pressed,  his  linen  was  clean,  his  boots 
were  well  polished,  he  was  clean  shaven.  There  was 
not  a  speck  of  dust  upon  him  and  he  did  not  look  like  a 
man  who  had  gone  through  the  hell  of  battle  that  morn- 
ing. The  American  sergeant  asked  him  in  German  to 
place  the  contents  of  his  pockets  on  the  table. 

"I  understand  English,"  he  replied  superciliously,  with 
a  strong  accent,  as  he  complied  with  the  request.  I  no- 
ticed, however,  that  he  neglected  to  divest  himself  of  one 
certain  thing  that  caught  my  interest.  It  was  a  leather 
thong  that  extended  around  his  neck  and  disappeared  be- 
tween the  first  and  second  buttons  of  his  tunic.  Curi- 
osity forced  me  to  reach  across  the  table  and  extract  the 
hidden  terminal  of  that  thong.  I  found  suspended  on 
it  the  one  thing  in  all  the  world  that  exactly  fitted  me 
and  that  I  wanted.  It  was  a  one-eyed  field  glass.  I 
thanked  him. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  once  been  an  interne  in  a  hos- 
pital in  New  York  but  happening  to  be  in  Germany  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  war,  he  had  immediately  entered  the 
army  and  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  a  major  in  the  Medical 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  373 

Corps.  I  was  anxious  for  his  opinion,  obvious  as  it 
might  have  seemed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  fighting  capacity  of  the 
American  soldier?"  I  asked  him. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied  in  the  accented  but  dig- 
nified tones  of  a  superior  who  painfully  finds  himself  in 
the  hands  of  one  considered  inferior.  "I  have  never 
seen  him  fight.     He  is  persuasive — yes. 

"I  was  in  a  dug-out  with  forty  German  wounded  in 
the  cellar  under  the  Beaurepaire  Farm,  when  the  terri- 
ble bombardment  landed.  I  presume  my  gallant  com- 
rades defending  the  position  died  at  their  posts,  because 
soon  the  barrage  lifted  and  I  walked  across  the  cellar 
to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  and  looked  up. 

"There  in  the  little  patch  of  white  light  on  the  level 
of  the  ground  above  me,  I  saw  the  first  American  sol- 
dier I  have  seen  in  the  war.  But  he  did  not  impress  me 
much  as  a  soldier.  I  did  not  like  his  carriage  or  his 
bearing. 

"He  wore  his  helmet  far  back  on  his  head.  And  he 
did  not  have  his  coat  on.  His  collar  was  not  buttoned ; 
it  was  rolled  back  and  his  throat  was  bare.  His  sleeves 
were  rolled  up  to  the  elbow.  And  he  had  a  grenade  in 
each  hand. 

"Just  then  he  looked  down  the  stairs  and  saw  me — 
saw  me  standing  there — saw  me,  a  major — and  he 
shouted  roughly,  'Come  out  of  there,  you  big  Dutch 
B d,  or  I'll  spill  a  basketful  of  these  on  you.'  " 

All  through  that  glorious  day  of  the  18th,  our  lines 
swept  forward  victoriously.  The  First  Division  fought 
it  out  on  the  left,  the  Foreign  Legion  in  the  centre  and 
the  Second  Division  with  the  Marines  pushed  forward 
on  the  right.     Village  after  village  fell  into  our  hands. 


374  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

We  captured  batteries  of  guns  and  thousands  of  pris- 
oners. 

On  through  the  night  the  Allied  assault  continued. 
Our  men  fought  without  water  or  food.  All  road  space 
behind  the  lines  was  devoted  to  the  forwarding  of  re- 
serves, artillery  and  munitions.  By  the  morning  of  the 
19th,  we  had  so  far  penetrated  the  enemy's  lines  that 
we  had  crossed  the  road  running  southward  from  Sois- 
sons  to  Chateau-Thierry,  thereby  disrupting  the  ene- 
my's communications  between  his  newly  established  base 
and  the  peak  of  his  salient.  Thus  exposed  to  an  envel- 
oping movement  that  might  have  surrounded  large  num- 
bers, there  was  nothing  left  for  the  Germans  to  do  but 
to  withdraw. 

The  Allied  army  commander,  who  directed  the  Amer- 
icans on  that  glorious  day,  was  General  Joseph  Man- 
gin.  His  opinion  of  the  immortal  part  played  on  that 
day  by  those  two  American  divisions  may  be  seen  in  the 
following  order  which  he  caused  to  be  published : 

Officers,  Noncommissioned  Officers,  and  Soldiers  of  the 
American  Army: 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  your  French  comrades,  you 
threw  yourselves  into  the  counter-offensive  begun  on 
July  1 8th.  You  ran  to  it  as  if  going  to  a  feast.  Your 
magnificent  dash  upset  and  surprised  the  enemy,  and 
your  indomitable  tenacity  stopped  counter  attacks  by  his 
fresh  divisions.  You  have  shown  yourselves  to  be 
worthy  sons  of  your  great  country  and  have  gained  the 
admiration  of  your  brothers  in  arms. 

Ninety-one  cannon,  7,200  prisoners,  immense  booty, 
and  ten  kilometres  of  reconquered  territory  are  your 
share  of  the  trophies  of  this  victory.  Besides  this,  you 
have  acquired  a  feeling  of  your  superiority  over  the  bar- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  375 

barian  enemy  against  whom  the  children  of  liberty  are 
righting.     To  attack  him  is  to  vanquish  him. 

American  comrades,  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  the 
blood  you  generously  spilled  on  the  soil  of  my  country. 
I  am  proud  of  having  commanded  you  during  such 
splendid  days  and  to  have  fought  with  you  for  the  de- 
liverance of  the  world. 

The  Germans  began  backing  off  the  Marne.  From 
that  day  on,  their  movement  to  date  has  continued  back- 
ward. It  began  July  18th.  Two  American  Divisions 
played  glorious  parts  in  the  crisis.  It  was  their  day.  It 
was  America's  day.    It  was  the  turn  of  the  tide. 


376         "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 
CHAPTER  XX 

THE   DAWN   OF  VICTORY 

The  waited  hour  had  come.  The  forced  retreat  of 
the  German  hordes  had  begun.  Hard  on  their  heels,  the 
American  lines  started  their  northward  push,  backing 
the  Boche  off  the  Marne. 

On  the  morning  of  July  21st  I  rode  into  Chateau- 
Thierry  with  the  first  American  soldiers  to  enter 
the  town.  The  Germans  had  evacuated  hurriedly. 
Chateau-Thierry  was  reoccupied  jointly  by  our  forces 
and  those  of  the  French. 

Here  was  the  grave  of  German  hopes.  Insolent,  im- 
perialistic longings  for  the  great  prize,  Paris,  ended 
here.  The  dream  of  the  Kultur  conquest  of  the  world 
had  become  a  nightmare  of  horrible  realisation  that 
America  was  in  the  war.  Pompously  flaunted  strategy 
crumpled  at  historic  Chateau-Thierry. 

That  day  of  the  occupation,  the  wrecked  city  was  com- 
paratively quiet.  Only  an  occasional  German  shell — a 
final  parting  spite  shell — whined  disconsolately  overhead 
and  landed  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  debris  in  some  vacant 
ruin  that  had  once  been  a  home. 

For  seven  long  weeks  the  enemy  had  been  in  occupa- 
tion of  that  part  of  the  city  on  the  north  bank  of  the 
river.  Now  the  streets  were  littered  with  debris.  Al- 
though the  walls  of  most  of  the  buildings  seemed  to  be 
in  good  shape,  the  scene  was  one  of  utter  devastation. 

The  Germans  had  built  barracades  across  the  streets 
— particularly  the  streets  that  led  down  to  the  river — 
because  it  was  those  streets  that  were  swept  with  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  377 

terrific  fire  of  American  machine  guns.  At  the  inter- 
sections of  those  streets  the  Germans  under  cover  of 
night  had  taken  up  the  cobblestones  and  built  parapets 
to  protect  them  from  the  hail  of  lead. 

Wrecked  furniture  was  hip  deep  on  the  Rue  Carnot. 
Along  the  north  bank  of  the  river  on  the  Quai  de  la 
Poterne  and  the  Promenade  de  la  Levee,  the  invader  had 
left  his  characteristic  mark.  Shop  after  shop  had  been 
looted  of  its  contents  and  the  fronts  of  the  pretty  side- 
walk cafes  along  this  business  thoroughfare  had  been 
reduced  to  shells  of  their  former  selves. 

Not  a  single  living  being  was  in  sight  as  we  marched 
in.  Some  of  the  old  townsfolk  and  some  young  chil- 
dren had  remained  but  they  were  still  under  cover. 
Among  these  French  people  who  had  lived  for  seven 
weeks  through  the  hell  of  battle  that  had  raged  about 
the  town,  was  Madame  de  Prey,  who  was  eighty-seven 
years  old.  To  her,  home  meant  more  than  life.  She 
had  spent  the  time  in  her  cellar,  caring  for  German 
wounded. 

The  town  had  been  systematically  pillaged.  The  Ger- 
man soldiers  had  looted  from  the  shops  much  material 
which  they  had  made  up  into  packages  to  be  mailed  back 
to  home  folks  in  the  Fatherland.  The  church,  strangely 
enough,  was  picked  out  as  a  depository  for  their  lar- 
cenies. Nothing  from  the  robes  of  the  priests  down  to 
the  copper  faucet  of  a  water  pipe  had  escaped  their 
greed. 

The  advancing  Americans  did  not  linger  in  the  town 
— save  for  small  squads  of  engineers  that  busied  them- 
selves with  the  removal  of  the  street  obstructions  and 
the  supply  organisations  that  perfected  communication 
for  the  advancing  lines.     These  Americans  were  Yankees 


378  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

all — they  comprised  the  26th  U.  S.  Division,  representing 
the  National  Guard  of  New  England. 

Our  lines  kept  pushing  to  the  north.  The  Germans 
continued  their  withdrawal  and  the  Allied  necessity  was 
to  keep  contact  with  them.  This,  the  Yankee  Division 
succeeded  in  doing.  The  first  obstacle  encountered  to 
the  north  of  Chateau-Thierry  was  the  stand  that  the 
Germans  made  at  the  town  of  Epieds. 

On  July  23rd,  our  infantry  had  proceeded  up  a  ravine 
that  paralleled  the  road  into  Epieds.  German  machine 
guns  placed  on  the  hills  about  the  village,  swept  them 
with  a  terrible  fire.  Our  men  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
village,  but  the  Germans  responded  with  such  a  terrific 
downpour  of  shell  that  our  weakened  ranks  were  forced 
to  withdraw  and  the  Germans  re-entered  the  town. 

On  the  following  day  we  renewed  the  attack  with  the 
advantage  of  positions  which  we  had  won  during  the 
night  in  the  Bois  de  Trugny  and  the  Bois  de  Chatelet. 
We  advanced  from  three  sides  and  forced  the  Germans 
to  evacuate.  Trugny,  the  small  village  on  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  was  the  scene  of  more  bloody  fighting  which 
resulted  in  our  favour. 

Further  north  of  Epieds,  the  Germans  having  en- 
trenched themselves  along  the  roadway,  had  fortified 
the  same  with  a  number  of  machine  guns  which  com- 
manded the  flat  terrain  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a 
frontal  attack  by  infantry  waves  most  costly.  The  se- 
curity of  the  Germans  in  this  position  received  a  severe 
shock  when  ten  light  automobiles,  each  one  mounting  one 
or  two  machine  guns,  started  up  the  road  toward  the 
enemy,  firing  as  they  sped.  It  was  something  new.  The 
Germans  wanted  to  surrender,  but  the  speed  of  the  cars 
obviated  such  a  possibility.  So  the  enemy  fled  before 
our  gasoline  cavalry. 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  379 

The  Germans  were  withdrawing  across  the  river 
Ourcq,  whose  valley  is  parallel  to  that  of  the  Marne  and 
just  to  the  north.  The  enemy's  intentions  of  making  a 
stand  here  were  frustrated  by  violent  attacks,  which  suc- 
ceeded in  carrying  our  forces  into  positions  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Ourcq.  These  engagements  straightened  out 
the  Allied  line  from  the  Ourcq  on  the  west  to  Fere-en- 
Tardenois  on  the  east,  which  had  been  taken  the  same 
day  by  French  and  American  troops. 

By  this  time  the  German  withdrawal  was  becoming 
speedier.  Such  strong  pressure  was  maintained  by  our 
men  against  the  enemy's  rear  guards  that  hundreds  of 
tons  of  German  ammunition  had  to  be  abandoned  and 
fell  into  our  hands.  Still  the  retreat  bore  no  evidences 
of  a  rout. 

The  enemy  retired  in  orderly  fashion.  He  bitterly 
contested  every  foot  of  ground  he  was  forced  to  give. 
The  American  troops  engaged  in  those  actions  had  to 
fight  hard  for  every  advance.  The  German  backed  out 
of  the  Marne  salient  as  a  Western  "bad  man"  would 
back  out  of  a  saloon  with  an  automatic  pistol  in  each 
hand. 

Those  charges  that  our  men  made  across  the  muddy 
flats  of  the  Ourcq  deserve  a  place  in  the  martial  history 
of  America.  They  faced  a  veritable  hell  of  machine 
gun  fire.  They  went  through  barrages  of  shrapnel  and 
high  explosive  shell.  They  invaded  small  forests  that 
the  enemy  had  flooded  with  poison  gas.  No  specific  ob- 
jectives were  assigned.  The  principal  order  was  "Up 
and  at  'em"  and  this  was  reinforced  by  every  man's  de- 
termination to  keep  the  enemy  on  the  run  now  that  they 
had  been  started. 

Even  the  enemy's  advantage  of  high  positions  north 
of  the  river  failed  to  hold  back  the  men  from  New  York, 


38o  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

from  Iowa,  Alabama,  Ohio,  Illinois,  Minnesota  and 
Indiana,  who  had  relieved  the  hard  fighting  Yankees. 
These  new  American  organisations  went  up  against  fresh 
German  divisions  that  had  been  left  behind  with  orders 
to  hold  at  all  cost.  But  nothing  the  enemy  could  do 
could  prevent  our  crossing  of  the  Ourcq. 

On  July  30th  the  fighting  had  become  most  intense 
in  character.  The  fact  that  the  town  of  Sergy  was 
captured,  lost  and  recaptured  nine  times  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  is  some  criterion  of  the  bitterness  of  the 
struggle.  This  performance  of  our  men  can  be  better 
understood  when  it  is  stated  that  the  enemy  opposing 
them  there  consisted  of  two  fresh  divisions  of  the 
Kaiser's  finest — his  Prussian  Guard. 

After  that  engagement  with  our  forces,  the  Fourth 
Prussian  Guard  Division  went  into  an  enforced  retire- 
ment. When  our  men  captured  Sergy  the  last  time,  they 
did  so  in  sufficient  strength  to  withhold  it  against  re- 
peated fierce  counter  attacks  by  a  Bavarian  Guard  divi- 
sion that  had  replaced  the  wearied  Prussians. 

But  before  the  crack  Guard  Division  was  withdrawn 
from  the  line,  it  had  suffered  terrible  losses  at  our  hands. 
Several  prisoners  captured  said  that  their  company  had 
gone  into  the  fight  one  hundred  and  fifty  strong  and  only 
seven  had  survived.  That  seven  were  captured  by  our 
men  in  hand  to  hand  fighting. 

While  our  engineer  forces  repaired  the  roads  and 
constructed  bridges  in  the  wake  of  our  advancing  lines, 
the  enemy  brought  to  that  part  of  the  front  new  squad- 
rons of  air  fighters  which  were  sent  over  our  lines  for 
the  purpose  of  observation  and  interference  with  com- 
munications. They  continually  bombed  our  supply  de- 
pots and  ammunition  dumps. 

After  the  crossing  of  the  Ourcq  the  American  advance 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  381 

reached  the  next  German  line  of  resistance,  which  rested 
on  two  terminal  strongholds.  One  was  in  the  Foret  de 
Nesles  and  the  other  was  in  the  Bois  de  Meuniere. 

The  fighting  about  these  two  strong  points  was  par- 
ticularly fierce.  In  the  Bois  de  Meuniere  and  around  the 
town  of  Cierges,  the  German  resistance  was  most  de- 
termined. About  three  hundred  Jaegers  held  Hill  200, 
which  was  located  in  the  centre  of  Cierges  Forest,  just 
to  the  south  of  the  village  of  the  same  name.  They 
were  well  provided  with  machine  guns  and  ammunition. 
They  were  under  explicit  orders  to  hold  and  they  did. 

Our  men  finally  captured  the  position  at  the  point  of 
the  bayonet.  Most  of  its  defenders  fought  to  the  death. 
The  capture  of  the  hill  was  the  signal  for  a  renewal 
of  our  attacks  against  the  seemingly  impregnable 
Meuniere  woods.  Six  times  our  advancing  waves 
reached  the  German  positions  in  the  southern  edge  of 
the  woods  and  six  times  we  were  driven  back. 

There  were  some  American  Indians  in  the  ranks  of 
our  units  attacking  there — there  were  lumber  jacks  and 
farmer  boys  and  bookkeepers,  and  they  made  heroic 
rushes  against  terrific  barriers  of  hidden  machine  guns. 
But  after  a  day  of  gallant  fighting  they  had  been  unable 
to  progress. 

Our  efforts  had  by  no  means  been  exhausted.  The 
following  night  our  artillery  concentrated  on  the 
southern  end  of  the  woods  and  literally  turned  it  into  an 
inferno  with  high  explosive  shells.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing we  moved  to  the  attack  again.  Two  of  the  Kaiser's 
most  reputable  divisions,  the  200th  Jaegers  and  the  216th 
Reserve,  occupied  the  wood.  The  fighting  in  the  wood 
was  fierce  and  bloody,  but  it  was  more  to  the  liking  of 
our  men  than  the  rushes  across  fire-swept  fields.     Our 


382  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

men  went  to  work  with  the  bayonet.  And  for  six  hours 
they  literally  carved  their  way  through  four  kilometres 
of  the  forest.  Before  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  our 
lines  lay  to  the  north  of  the  woods. 

In  consolidating  the  gains  in  the  woods,  our  men  sur- 
rounded in  a  small  clearing  some  three  hundred  of  the 
enemy  who  refused  to  surrender.  American  squads  ad- 
vanced with  the  bayonet  from  all  sides.  The  Germans 
were  righting  for  their  lives.  Only  three  remained  to 
accept  the  ignominy  of  capture. 

Our  forward  progress  continued  and  by  August  4th 
the  Germans  were  withdrawing  across  the  Vesle  River. 
The  immediate  objective  that  presented  itself  to  the 
Americans  was  the  important  German  supply  depot  at 
Fismes.  It  was  in  and  around  Fismes  that  some  of  the 
bloodiest  fighting  in  the  second  battle  of  the  Marne  took 
place.  The  capture  of  Fismes  was  the  crowning  achieve- 
ment of  one  American  division  that  so  distingushed  itself 
as  to  be  made  the  subject  of  a  special  report  to  the 
French  General  Headquarters  by  the  French  army  in 
which  the  Americans  fought.     In  part,  the  report  read : 

"On  Aug.  4th  the  infantry  combats  were  localized  with 
terrible  fury.  The  outskirts  of  Fismes  were  solidly 
held  by  the  Germans,  where  their  advance  groups  were 
difficult  to  take.  The  Americans  stormed  them  and 
reduced  them  with  light  mortars  and  thirty-sevens. 
They  succeeded,  though  not  without  loss,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  thanks  to  this  slow  but  sure  tenacity, 
they  were  within  one  kilometre  of  Fismes  and  masters 
of  Villes,  Savoye  and  Chezelle  Farm.  All  night  long 
rains  hindered  their  movements  and  rendered  their  fol- 
lowing day's  task  more  arduous.     On  their   right  the 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  383 

French  had,  by  similar  stages,  conquered  a  series  of 
woods  and  swamps  of  Meuniere  Woods,  to  the  east  of 
St.  Gilles,  and  were  on  the  plateau  of  Bonne  Maison 
Farm.  To  the  left  another  American  unit  had  been  able 
to  advance  upon  the  Vesle  to  the  east  of  St.  Thibault. 

"On  Aug.  5th  the  artillery  prepared  for  the  attack 
on  Fismes  by  a  bombardment,  well  regulated,  and  the 
final  assault  was  launched.  The  Americans  penetrated 
into  the  village  and  then  began  the  mean  task  of  clearing 
the  last  point  of  resistance.  That  evening  this  task  was 
almost  completed.  We  held  all  the  northern  part  of  the 
village  as  far  as  Rheims  road,  and  patrols  were  sent  into 
the  northern  end  of  the  village.  Some  even  succeeded 
in  crossing  the  Vesle,  but  were  satisfied  with  making  a 
reconnaisance,  as  the  Germans  still  occupied  the  right 
bank  of  the  river  in  great  strength.  All  that  was  left 
to  be  accomplished  was  to  complete  the  mopping  up  of 
Fismes  and  the  strengthening  of  our  positions  to  with- 
stand an  enemy  counter  attack. 

"Such  was  the  advance  of  one  American  division, 
which  pushed  the  enemy  forward  from  Roncheres  on 
July  30th  a  distance  of  eighteen  kilometres  and  crowned 
its  successful  advance  with  the  capture  of  Fismes  on 
Aug.  5th." 

The  German  line  on  the  Vesle  river  fell  shortly  after 
the  capture  of  Fismes.  The  enemy  was  forced  to  fall 
back  to  his  next  natural  line  of  defence  on  the  Aisne. 
Between  the  Vesle  and  the  Aisne,  the  Americans  as- 
sisted the  French  in  the  application  of  such  persistent 
pressure  that  the  enemy's  stubborn  resistance  was  over- 
come and  in  many  places  he  was  forced  to  withdraw 
before  he  had  time  to  destroy  his  depots  of  supply. 


384  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

On  August  9th,  General  Degoutte,  commanding  the 
Sixth  French  Army,  issued  the  following  order: 

"Before  the  great  offensive  of  July  18th,  the  American 
troops,  forming  part  of  the  6th  French  Army,  distin- 
guished themselves  by  clearing  the  'Brigade  de  Marine' 
Woods  and  the  village  of  Vaux  of  the  enemy  and  arrest- 
ing his  offensive  on  the  Marne  and  at  Fossoy. 

"Since  then  they  have  taken  the  most  glorious  part  in 
the  second  battle  of  the  Marne,  rivalling  the  French 
troops  in  ardour  and  valour. 

"During  twenty  days  of  constant  fighting  they  have 
freed  numerous  French  villages  and  made,  across  a  diffi- 
cult country,  an  advance  of  forty  kilometres,  which  has 
brought  them  to  the  Vesle. 

"Their  glorious  marches  are  marked  by  names  which 
will  shine  in  future  in  the  military  history  of  the  United 
States :  Torcy,  Belleau,  Plateau  d'Etrepilly,  Epieds,  Le 
Charmel,  l'Ourcq,  Seringeset  Nesles,  Sergy,  La  Vesle 
and  Fismes. 

"These  young  divisions,  who  saw  fire  for  the  first 
time,  have  shown  themselves  worthy  of  the  old  war 
traditions  of  the  regular  army.  They  have  had  the  same 
burning  desire  to  fight  the  Boche,  the  same  discipline 
which  sees  that  the  order  given  by  their  commander  is 
always  executed,  whatever  the  difficulties  to  be  overcome 
and  the  sacrifices  to  be  suffered. 

"The  magnificent  results  obtained  are  due  to  the  energy 
and  the  skill  of  the  commanders,  to  the  bravery  of  the 
soldiers. 

"I  am  proud  to  have  commanded  such  troops." 

Through  the  month  of  August  and  up  to  the  first  days 
of  September,  the  Americans  participated  in  the  impor- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  385 


tant  operations  to  the  north  of  Soissons,  where  on 
August  29th  they  played  a  big  part  in  the  capture  of 
the  Juvigny  Plateau. 

In  this  righting,  which  was  marked  by  the  desperate 
resistance  of  the  enemy,  the  Americans  were  incorporated 
in  the  10th  French  Army  under  the  command  of  General 
Mangin.  Violent  counter  attacks  by  German  shock  divi- 
sions failed  to  stem  the  persistent  advances  of  our  forces. 

A  large  hill  to  the  north  of  Juvigny  constituted  a  key 
and  supporting  position  for  the  enemy.  In  spite  of  the 
large  number  of  machine  guns  concealed  on  its  slopes, 
the  Americans  succeeded  in  establishing  a  line  between 
the  hill  and  the  town.  At  the  same  time  the  American 
line  extended  itself  around  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 
With  the  consummation  of  this  enveloping  movement, 
the  hill  was  taken  by  assault. 

On  Labor  Day,  September  2nd,  after  bitterly  engag- 
ing four  German  divisions  for  five  days,  the  Americans 
advanced  their  lines  to  Terny-Sorny  and  the  road  run- 
ning between  Soissons  and  St.  Ouentin.  This  achieve- 
ment, which  was  accomplished  by  driving  the  Germans 
back  a  depth  of  four  miles  on  a  two  mile  front,  gave  our 
forces  a  good  position  on  the  important  plateau  running 
to  the  north  of  the  ;\isne. 

Our  observation  stations  now  commanded  a  view 
across  the  valley  toward  the  famous  Chemin  des  Dames 
which  at  one  time  had  been  a  part  of  the  Hindenburg 
line.  Before  the  invasion  of  the  German  hordes,  France 
possessed  no  fairer  country-side  than  the  valley  of  the 
Aisne.  But  the  Germans,  retreating,  left  behind  them 
only  wreckage  and  ashes  and  ruin.  The  valley  spread 
out  before  our  lines  was  scarred  with  the  shattered  re- 
mains of  what  had  once  been  peaceful   farming  com- 


386  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

munities.     To   the  northwest  there  could   be   seen   the 
spires  above  the  city  of  Laon. 

The  American  units  which  took  part  in  this  bitter 
fighting  that  had  continued  without  a  day's  cessation 
since  July  18th,  were  mentioned  specifically  in  an  order 
issued  on  August  27th  by  General  Pershing.  The  order 
read: 

"It  fills  me  with  pride  to  record  in  general  orders  a 
tribute  to  the  service  achievements  of  the  First  and  Third 
Corps,  comprising  the  First,  Second,  Third,  Fourth, 
Twenty-sixth,  Twenty-eighth,  Thirty-second  and  Forty- 
second  Divisions  of  the  American  Expeditionary  Forces. 

"You  came  to  the  battlefield  at  a  crucial  hour  for 
the  Allied  cause.  For  almost  four  years  the  most  for- 
midable army  the  world  has  yet  seen  had  pressed  its 
invasion  of  France  and  stood  threatening  its  capital. 
At  no  time  has  that  army  been  more  powerful  and 
menacing  than  when,  on  July  15th,  it  struck  again  to 
destroy  in  one  great  battle  the  brave  men  opposed  to  it 
and  to  enforce  its  brutal  will  upon  the  world  and  civili- 
sation. 

"Three  days  later  in  conjunction  with  our  Allies  you 
counter-attacked.  The  Allied  armies  gained  a  brilliant 
victory  that  marks  the  turning  point  of  the  war.  You 
did  more  than  to  give  the  Allies  the  support  to  which, 
as  a  nation,  our  faith  was  pledged.  You  proved  that 
our  altruism,  our  pacific  spirit,  and  our  sense  of  justice 
have  not  blunted  our  virility  or  our  courage. 

"You  have  shown  that  American  initiative  and  energy 
are  as  fit  for  the  tasks  of  war  as  for  the  pursuits  of 
peace.  You  have  justly  won  unstinted  praise  from  our 
Allies  and  the  eternal  gratitude  of  our  countrymen. 

"We  have  paid  for  our  successes  with  the  lives  of 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  387 

many  of  our  brave  comrades.  We  shall  cherish  their 
memory  always  and  claim  for  our  history  and  literature 
their  bravery,  achievement  and  sacrifice. 

'This  order  will  be  read  to  all  organisations  at  the 
first  assembly  formations  following  its  receipt. 

"Pershing." 

August  10th  marked  a  milestone  in  the  military  effort 
of  the  United  States.  On  that  day  the  organisation 
was  completed  of  the  First  American  Field  Army.  I 
have  tried  to  show  in  this  record  how  we  began  the 
organisation  of  our  forces  overseas.  Our  first  troops  to 
reach  France  were  associated  in  small  units  with  the 
French.  Soon  our  regiments  began  to  reach  the  front 
under  French  Division  Commanders.  Then  with  the 
formation  of  American  divisions,  we  went  into  the  line 
under  French  corps  commanders.  Later  still,  American 
corps  operated  under  French  Army  Commanders. 
Finally,  our  forces  augmented  by  additional  divisions 
and  corps  were  organised  into  the  First  American  Field 
Army. 

Through  these  various  stages  of  development,  our 
forces  had  grown  until  on  August  10th  they  had  reached 
the  stage  where  they  became  practically  as  independent 
an  organisation  as  the  British  armies  under  Field  Mar- 
shal Sir  Douglas  Haig  and  the  French  armies  under 
General  Petain.  From  now  on  the  American  Army  was 
to  be  on  a  par  with  the  French  Army  and  the  British 
Army,  all  three  of  them  under  the  sole  direction  of  the 
Allied  Generalissimo,  Marshal  Ferdinand  Foch. 

The  personnel  of  this,  the  greatest  single  army  that 
ever  fought  beneath  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  is  reproduced 
in  the  appendix.  It  might  not  be  amiss  to  point  out 
that  an  American  division  numbers  thirty  thousand  men 


388  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

and  that  an  American  corps  consists  of  six  divisions  and 
auxiliary  troops,  such  as  air  squadrons,  tank  sections, 
and  heavy  artillery,  which  bring  the  strength  of  an 
American  army  corps  to  between  225,000  and  250,000 
men.  By  the  1st  of  September,  the  United  States  of 
America  had  five  such  army  corps  in  the  field,  martial- 
ling  a  strength  of  about  one  and  one-half  million  bayo- 
nets. General  Pershing  was  in  command  of  this  group 
of  armies  which  comprised  the  First  American  Field 
Army. 

It  was  from  these  forces  that  General  Pershing  se- 
lected the  strong  units  which  he  personally  commanded 
in  the  first  major  operation  of  the  First  American  Field 
Army  as  an  independent  unit  in  France.  That  opera- 
tion was  the  beginning  of  the  Pershing  push  toward  the 
Rhine — it  was  the  Battle  of  St.  Mihiel. 

It  was  a  great  achievement.  It  signalised  the  full 
development  of  our  forces  from  small  emergency  units 
that  had  reached  the  front  less  than  a  year  before,  to  the 
now  powerful  group  of  armies,  fighting  under  their 
own  flag,  their  own  generals,  and  their  own  staffs. 

The  important  material  results  of  the  Battle  of  St. 
Mihiel  are  most  susceptible  to  civilian  as  well  as  military 
comprehension.  The  St.  Mihiel  salient  had  long  con- 
stituted a  pet  threat  of  the  enemy.  The  Germans  called 
it  a  dagger  pointed  at  the  heart  of  eastern  France.  For 
three  years  the  enemy  occupying  it  had  successfully  re- 
sisted all  efforts  of  the  Allies  to  oust  them. 

The  salient  was  shaped  like  a  triangle.  The  apex 
of  the  triangle — the  point  of  the  dagger — thrusting 
southward,  rested  on  the  town  of  St.  Mihiel,  on  the  river 
Meuse.  The  western  flank  of  the  triangle  extended 
northward  from  St.  Mihiel  to  points  beyond  Verdun. 
The  eastern  flank  of  the  triangle  extended  in  a  north- 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  389 

easterly  direction  toward  Pont-a-Mousson.  It  was  the 
strongest  position  held  by  the  Germans  in  Lorraine — if 
not  on  the  entire  front. 

The  geographical  formation  of  the  salient  was  an  invi- 
tation for  the  application  of  a  pincers  operation.  The 
point  of  leverage  of  the  opposing  jaws  of  the  pincers 
was,  most  naturally,  the  apex  of  the  triangle  at  St. 
Mihiel. 

One  claw  of  the  pincers — a  claw  some  eight  miles 
thick,  bit  into  the  east  side  of  the  salient  near  Pont-a- 
Mousson  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Moselle  River.  The 
other  claw  of  the  pincers  was  about  eight  miles  thick 
and  it  bit  into  the  western  flank  of  the  salient  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  little  town  of  Haudiomont,  on  the  heights 
of  the  Meuse  and  just  a  little  distance  to  the  east  of  the 
Meuse  River. 

The  distance  across  that  part  of  the  salient  through 
which  the  pincer's  claws  were  biting  was  about  thirty 
miles,  and  the  area  which  would  be  included  in  the  bite 
would  be  almost  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  square  miles. 
This,  indeed,  was  a  major  operation. 

The  battle  began  at  one  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
September  12th,  when  the  concentrated  ordnance  of 
the  heaviest  American  artillery  in  France  opened  a  pre- 
paratory fire  of  unprecedented  intensity. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  dim  dawn  of  that  September 
morning,  our  infantry  waves  leaped  from  their  trenches 
and  moved  forward  to  the  assault.  The  claw  of  the 
pincers  on  the  eastern  flank  of  the  salient  began  to  bite  in. 

One  hour  later  the  claw  of  the  pincers  on  the  western 
flank  of  the  salient  began  to  move  forward. 

On  the  east,  our  men  went  forward  on  the  run  over 
ground  that  we  had  looked  upon  with  envious  eyes  from 
the  day  that  the  first  American  troops  reached  the  front. 


390  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

Before  noon  we  had  taken  the  villages  of  Lahayville,  St. 
Baussant,  Vilcey  and  the  Bois  de  Mortmare  and  we  were 
still  advancing.  By  nightfall,  our  lines  were  still  on  the 
move  beyond  Essey  and  we  were  holding  the  important 
town  of  Thiaucourt  and  claimed  Villers  sur  Penny  for 
our  own. 

The  seemingly  impregnable  fortress  of  Mont  Sec  had 
been  surrounded,  our  tanks  had  cleared  the  way  through 
Pannes,  we  had  taken  Nonsard  and  the  towns  of  Woin- 
ville  and  Buxieres  had  fallen  into  our  hands. 

On  the  west  side  of  the  salient  the  day  had  gone  equally 
well  for  us.  The  western  claw  of  the  pincers  had  pushed 
due  east  through  the  towns  of  Spada  and  Lavigneville. 
Our  men  had  swept  on  in  the  night  through  Chaillon,  we 
had  taken  St.  Remy  and  had  cleared  the  Foret  de  Mon- 
tagne.  By  midnight  their  advanced  patrols  had  reached 
the  western  part  of  the  town  of  Vigneulles.  In  the 
meantime,  our  forces  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  salient 
were  pushing  westward  toward  this  same  town  of 
Vigneulles.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  forces 
from  the  east  were  occupying  the  eastern  part  of  the  town. 
The  pincers  had  closed;  the  St.  Mihiel  salient  had  been 
pinched  off. 

Our  forces  actually  met  at  nine  o'clock  on  the  morn- 
ing of  September  13th.  The  junction  was  made  at 
the  town  of  Heudicourt  to  the  south  of  Vigneulles. 
We  had  pocketed  all  of  the  German  forces  to  the  south 
of  that  town.  Our  centre  had  moved  forward  at  nine 
o'clock  the  night  before  and  occupied  St.  Mihiel  on  the 
heels  of  the  retreating  Germans.  But  the  withdrawal 
was  too  late.  Large  numbers  of  them  found  themselves 
completely  surrounded  in  the  forests  between  St.  Mihiel 
on  the  south  and  Heudicourt  on  the  north. 

We  closed  in  during  the  afternoon  and  started  to  open 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  391 

the  prize  package.  Located  in  the  area,  encircled  by  our 
troops,  was  the  Bois  de  Versel,  the  Bois  de  Gaumont 
and  the  Bois  de  Woeuvre.  Each  one  of  these  little 
forests  gave  up  its  quota  of  prisoners,  while  much  ma- 
terial and  rich  booty  of  war  fell  into  our  hands. 

The  principal  avenue  that  had  been  opened  for  the 
Germans  to  make  a  possible  withdrawal  led  through 
Vigneulles  and  before  our  pincers  had  completely  closed, 
the  fleeing  enemy  had  poured  out  through  that  gap  at 
the  rate  of  several  thousand  an  hour.  The  roads  were 
blocked  for  miles  with  their  transportation,  and  when 
the  American  artillery  turned  its  attention  to  these 
thoroughfares,  crowded  with  confused  Germans,  the 
slaughter  was  terrific.  For  days  after  the  battle  our 
sanitation  squads  were  busy  at  their  grewsome  work. 

In  conception  and  execution  the  entire  operation  had 
been  perfect.  Confusion  had  been  visited  upon  the 
method-loving  enemy  from  the  beginning.  By  reason 
of  the  disruption  of  their  intercommunications,  faulty 
liaison  had  resulted  and  division  had  called  to  division 
in  vain  for  assistance,  not  knowng  at  the  time  that  all  of 
them  were  in  equally  desperate  straits.  The  enemy 
fought  hard  but  to  no  purpose. 

One  entire  regiment  with  its  commander  and  his  staff 
was  captured.  With  both  flanks  exposed,  it  had  sud- 
denly been  confronted  by  Americans  on  four  sides.  The 
surrender  was  so  complete  that  the  German  commander 
requested  that  his  roll  should  be  called  in  order  to  ascer- 
tain the  extent  of  his  losses.  When  this  was  done,  every 
one  was  accounted  for  except  one  officer  and  one  private. 

As  his  command  was  so  embarrassingly  complete,  the 
German  commander  asked  permission  to  march  it  off  in 
whatever  direction  desired  by  his  captors.  The  request 
was  granted,  and  there  followed  the  somewhat  amusing 


392 


"AND  THEY  THOUGHT 


spectacle  of  an  entire  German  regiment,  without  arms, 
marching  off  the  battlefield  under  their  own  officers. 
The  captured  regiment  was  escorted  to  the  rear  by 
mounted  American  guards,  who  smilingly  and  leisurely 
rode  their  horses  cowboy  fashion  as  they  herded  their 
captives  back  to  the  pens. 

Tons  upon  tons  of  ammunition  fell  into  our  hands  in 
the  woods.  At  one  place  twenty-two  railroad  cars  loaded 
with  large  calibre  ammunition  had  to  be  abandoned 
when  an  American  shell  had  torn  up  the  track  to  the 
north  of  them.  But  if  the  Germans  had  been  unable  to 
take  with  them  their  equipment,  they  had  succeeded  in 
driving  ahead  of  them  on  the  retreat  almost  all  of  the 
French  male  civilians  between  sixteen  and  forty-five 
years  that  had  been  used  as  German  slaves  for  more  than 
four  years. 

The  Americans  were  welcomed  as  deliverers  by  those 
French  civilians  that  remained  in  the  town.  They  were 
found  to  be  almost  entirely  ignorant  of  the  most  com- 
monly known  historical  events  of  the  war.  Secretary 
of  War  Baker  and  Generals  Pershing  and  Petain  visited 
the  town  of  St.  Mihiel  a  few  hours  after  it  was  captured. 
They  were  honoured  with  a  spontaneous  demonstration 
by  the  girls  and  aged  women,  who  crowded  about  them 
to  express  thanks  and  pay  homage  for  deliverance. 

One  of  our  bands  began  to  play  the  "Marseillaise"  and 
the  old  French  civilians  who,  under  German  domination, 
had  not  heard  the  national  anthem  for  four  long  years, 
broke  down  and  wept.  The  mayor  of  the  town  told 
how  the  Germans  had  robbed  it  of  millions  of  francs. 
First  they  had  demanded  and  received  one  million  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  and  later  they  collected  five 
hundred  thousand  more  in  three  instalments.  In  addi- 
tion to  these  robberies,  they  had  taken  by  "requisition" 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT''  393 

all  the  furniture  and  mattresses  and  civilian  comforts 
that  they  could  find.  They  took  what  they  wanted  and 
usually  destroyed  the  rest.  They  had  stripped  the  towns 
of  all  metal  utensils,  bells,  statues,  and  water  pipes. 

The  St.  Mihiel  salient  thus  went  out  of  existence. 
The  entire  point  in  the  blade  of  the  dagger  that  had  been 
thrust  at  the  heart  of  France  had  been  bitten  off.  Ver- 
dun with  its  rows  upon  rows  of  sacred  dead  was  now 
liberated  from  the  threat  of  envelopment  from  the  right. 
The  Allies  were  in  possession  of  the  dominating  heights 
of  the  Meuse.  The  railroads  connecting  Commercy 
with  Vigneulles,  Thiaucourt  and  St.  Mihiel  were  in  our 
hands.  Our  lines  had  advanced  close  to  that  key  of 
victory,  the  Briey  iron  basin  to  the  north,  and  the  Ger- 
man fortress  of  Metz  lay  under  American  guns. 

The  battle  only  lasted  twenty-seven  hours.  In  that 
space  of  time,  a  German  force  estimated  at  one  hundred 
thousand  had  been  vanquished,  if  not  literally  cut  to 
pieces,  American  soldiers  had  wrested  a  hundred  and 
fifty  square  miles  of  territory  away  from  the  Germans, 
captured  fifteen  thousand  officers  and  men  and  hundreds 
of  guns.  General  Pershing  on  September  14th  made  the 
following  report: 

"The  dash  and  vigour  of  our  troops,  and  of  the  valiant 
French  divisions  which  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder  with 
them,  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  the  forces  attacking  on 
both  faces  of  the  salient  effected  a  junction  and  secured 
the  result  desired  within  twenty-seven  hours. 

"Besides  liberating  more  than  150  square  miles  of  ter- 
ritory and  taking  15,000  prisoners,  we  have  captured  a 
mass  of  material.  Over  100  guns  of  all  calibres  and 
hundreds  of  machine  guns  and  trench  mortars  have  been 
taken. 


394  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  enemy  during  his  retreat 
burned  large  stores,  a  partial  examination  of  the  battle- 
field shows  that  great  quantities  of  ammunition,  telegraph 
material,  railroad  material,  rolling  stock,  clothing,  and 
equipment  have  been  abandoned.  Further  evidence  of  the 
haste  with  which  the  enemy  retreated  is  found  in  the 
uninjured  bridges  which  he  left  behind. 

"French  pursuit,  bombing  and  reconnaissance  units, 
and  British  and  Italian  bombing  units  divided  with  our 
own  air  service  the  control  of  the  air,  and  contributed 
materially  to  the  successes  of  the  operation." 

And  while  this  great  battle  was  in  progress,  the  Allied 
lines  were  advancing  everywhere.  In  Flanders,  in 
Picardy,  on  the  Marne,  in  Champagne,  in  Lorraine,  in 
Alsace,  and  in  the  Balkans  the  frontier  of  freedom  was 
moving  forward. 

Surely  the  tide  had  turned.  And  surely  it  had  been 
America's  God-given  opportunity  to  play  the  big  part 
she  did  play.  The  German  was  now  on  the  run.  Sus- 
picious whisperings  of  peace  began  to  be  heard  in  neutral 
countries.  They  had  a  decided  German  accent.  Ger- 
many saw  defeat  staring  her  in  the  face  and  now,  having 
failed  to  win  in  the  field,  she  sought  to  win  by  a  bluff  at 
the  peace  table. 

The  mailed  fist  having  failed,  Germany  now  resorted 
to  cunning.  The  mailed  fist  was  now  an  open  palm  that 
itched  to  press  in  brotherhood  the  hands  of  the  Allies. 
But  it  was  the  same  fist  that  struck  down  the  peace  of  the 
world  in  1 9 14.  It  was  the  same  Germany  that  had  rav- 
ished and  outraged  Belgium.  It  was  the  same  Germany 
many  that  had  covered  America  with  her  net  of  spies  and 
that  had  tried  to  murder  France.  It  was  the  same  Ger- 
had  sought  to  bring  war  to  our  borders  with  Mexico  and 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  395 


Japan.  It  was  the  same  Germany  that  had  ruthlessly  de- 
stroyed the  lives  of  women  and  children,  American  citi- 
zens, non-combatants,  riding  the  free  seas  under  the 
protection  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  It  was  the  same 
Germany  that  had  drugged  Russia  with  her  corrupting 
propaganda  and  had  throttled  the  voice  of  Russian  democ- 
racy. This  Germany,  this  unrepentant  Germany — this 
unpunished  Germany,  launched  her  drive  for  peace. 

Germany  was  willing  to  make  any  concessions  to  bring 
about  negotiations  that  would  save  her  from  a  defeat  in 
the  field.  There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  Germany 
wanted  to  save  from  the  ruin  she  had  brought  down  upon 
herself.  That  thing  was  the  German  army  and  its  strong 
auxiliary,  the  German  navy.  Neither  one  of  them  had 
been  destroyed.  The  army  was  in  general  retreat  and 
the  navy  was  locked  up  in  the  Baltic,  but  both  of  them 
remained  in  existence  as  menaces  to  the  future  peace  of 
the  world.  With  these  two  forces  of  might,  Germany 
could  have  given  up  her  booty  of  war,  offered  reparation 
for  her  transgressions  and  drawn  back  behind  the  Rhine 
to  await  the  coming  of  another  Dcr  Tag  when  she 
could  send  them  once  more  crashing  across  friendly 
borders  and  cruising  the  seven  seas  on  missions  of  piracy. 

Germany  was  in  the  position  of  a  bully,  who  without 
provocation  and  without  warning  had  struck  down  from 
behind  a  man  who  had  not  been  prepared  to  defend  him- 
self. The  victim's  movements  had  been  impeded  by  a 
heavy  overcoat.  He  had  been  utterly  and  entirely  un- 
prepared for  the  onslaught.  The  bully  had  struck  him 
with  a  club  and  had  robbed  him. 

The  unprepared  man  had  tried  to  free  himself  from  the 
overcoat  of  pacifism  that  he  had  worn  so  long  in  safety 
and  in  kindliness  to  his  fellows.  The  bully,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  his  handicap,  had  beaten  him  brutally.     At 


396  "AND  THEY  THOUGHT 

last  the  unprepared  man  had  freed  himself  from  the 
overcoat  and  then  stood  ready  not  only  to  defend  him- 
self, but  to  administer  deserved  punishment.  Then  the 
bully  had  said : 

"Now,  wait  just  a  minute.  Let's  talk  this  thing  over 
and  see  if  we  can't  settle  it  before  I  get  hurt." 

The  bully's  pockets  bulge  with  the  loot  he  has  taken 
from  the  man.  The  victim's  face  and  head  are  swollen 
and  bloody  and  yet  the  bully  invites  him  to  sit  down  to  a 
table  to  discuss  the  hold-up,  the  assault,  and  the  terms  of 
which  the  loot  and  the  loot  only  will  be  returned.  The 
bully  takes  it  for  granted  that  he  is  to  go  unpunished  and, 
more  important  still,  is  to  retain  the  club  that  he  might 
decide  to  use  again. 

The  rule  of  common  sense  that  deals  with  individuals 
should  be  the  same  rule  that  applies  to  the  affairs  of  na- 
tions. No  municipal  law  anywhere  in  the  world  gives 
countenance  to  a  compromise  with  a  criminal.  Inter- 
national law  could  be  no  less  moral  than  municipal  law. 
Prussian  militarism  made  the  world  unsafe  for  Democ- 
racy, and  for  that  reason,  on  April  6th,  191 7,  the  United 
States  entered  the  war. 

We  wanted  a  decent  world  in  which  to  live.  And  the 
existence  of  the  Prussian  army  and  its  conscienceless 
masters  was  incompatible  with  the  free  and  peaceful  life 
of  the  world.  We  entered  the  war  for  an  ideal.  That 
ideal  was  in  the  balance  when  Germany  made  her  1918 
drive  for  peace. 

Our  army  in  France  knew  that  if  peace  came  with  an 
unwhipped  Prussian  army  in  existence,  the  world  would 
be  just  as  unsafe  for  Democracy  as  it  had  ever  been. 
Our  army  in  France  wanted  no  compromise  that  would 
leave  Germany  in  possession  of  the  instruments  that  had 
made  possible  her  crimes  against  the  world.     Every  man 


WE  WOULDN'T  FIGHT"  397 


that  had  shed  blood,  every  man  that  had  paid  the  final 
price,  every  woman  that  had  shed  tears,  every  cherished 
ideal  of  our  one  hundred  and  forty  years  of  national  life, 
would  have  been  sacrificed  in  vain,  if  we  had  condoned 
Germany's  high  crimes  against  civilisation  and  had  made 
a  compromise  with  the  criminal. 

Woodrow  Wilson,  President  of  the  United  States, 
spokesman  of  the  Allied  world,  sounded  the  true  Ameri- 
can note  when,  in  his  reply  to  the  insincere  German  peace 
proposals,  he  referred  the  German  Government  to  Mar- 
shal Foch,  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Allied  armies. 
Wrar  by  the  sword  was  to  bring  peace  by  the  sword. 

And  as  I  write  these  lines  in  the  last  days  of  October, 
191 8,  unconditional  surrender  is  the  song  of  the  dove 
of  peace  perched  on  our  bayonets  as  we  march  into  the 
dawn  of  victory. 


APPENDIX 

PERSONNEL  OF  THE  AMERICAN  EXPEDITIONARY 
FORCES  IN  FRANCE 

1ST  ARMY    CORPS 

Major  Gen.  Hunter  Liggett,  commanding. 

1st  and  2nd  Division,  Regular  Army;  26th,  (New  England), 
32d,  (Michigan  and  Wisconsin),  41st,  (Washington,  Oregon, 
North  and  South  Dakota,  Colorado,  New  Mexico,  Montana, 
Idaho,  Wyoming,  and  Minnesota),  and  42d  (Rainbow,  troops 
from  twenty-six  States)   Divisions,  National  Guard. 

1ST  DIVISION — Major  Gen.  Charles  P.  Summerall,  command- 
ing; Lieut.  Col.  Campbell  King,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  H.  K. 
Loughry,  Adjutant  General. 

ist  Brigade,  Infantry — Major  John  L.  Hines;  16th  and  18th 
Regiments;  2d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

2D  Brigade,  Infantry — Major  Gen.  Beaumont  B.  Buck;  26th 
and  28th  Regiments;  3d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

ist  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced) ;  5th,  6th,  and  7th  Regiments;  ist  Trench  Mortar 
Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — ist  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 2nd  Battalion. 

Division  Units — ist  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

2ND  DIVISION  (U.  S.  M.  C.)— Brig.  Gen.  John  E.  Le  Jeune, 
commanding;  Brig.  Gen.  Preston  Brown,  Chief  of  Staff. 

3rd  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Hanson  E.  Ely;  9th  and 
23rd   Regiments ;    5th    Machine   Gun    Battalion. 

4th  Brigade,  Infantry  (Marines) — Brig.  Gen.  John  E. 
Le  Jeune;  5th  and  6th  Regiments;  6th  Machine  Gun  Bat- 
talion. 

2d  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig  Gen.  A.  J.  Bowley;  12th, 
15th,  and  17th  Regiments;  2d  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 2d  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — ist  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 2d  Division  Headquarters  Troops;  4th  Ma- 
chine Gun  Battalion. 

399 


4oo  APPENDIX 


26TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  Clarence  R.  Edwards,  command- 
ing; Lieut.  Col.  Cassius  M.  Dowell,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major 
Charles  A.  Stevens,  Adjutant  General. 

51ST  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  George  H.  Shelton;  101st 
and  I02d  Regiments;  io2d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

52D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  C.  H.  Cole;  103d  and  104th 
Regiments ;   103d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

51ST  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  D.  E.  Aultman; 
101st  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 101st  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 101st  Field  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 26th  Headquarters  Troop;  101st  Machine 
Gun  Battalion. 

32ND  DIVISION— Major  Gen.W.G.Haan,  commanding ;  Lieut. 

Col.  Allen  L.  Briggs,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  John  H.  How- 
ard, Adjutant  General. 
63D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  William  D.  Connor;  125th 

and  126th  Regiments;   120th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
64TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  E.  B.  Winans;  127th  and 

128th  Regiments;  121st  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
57TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  G.  LeRoy  Irwin; 

119th,   1 20th   and   121st   Regiments;    107th  Trench   Mortar 

Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 107th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 107th  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 32d   Headquarters    Troops;    119th    Machine 

Gun  Battalion. 

41ST  DIVISION    (Sunset)—  Major.   Gen.   Robert  Alexander, 

commanding;  Colonel  Harry  H.  Tebbetts,  Chief  of  Staff; 

Major  Herbert  H.  White,  Adjutant  General. 
8ist  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.   Gen.   Wilson  B.   Burt;   161st 

and  162nd  Regiments;   147th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
82D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.   Gen.   Edward  Vollrath ;   163rd 

and  164th  Regiments;   148th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
66th    Brigade,    Field    Artillery — (Commanding    officer    not 

announced)  ;    146th,    147th,    and    148th    Regiments;    116th 

Trench  Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 116th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 116th  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 41st    Division    Headquarters    Troop;    146th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

42D  DIVISION  (Rainbow)—  Major  Gen.  C.  T.  Menoher, 
commanding;  (Chief  of  Staff  not  announced)  ;  Major  Wal- 
ter E.  Powers,  Adjutant  General. 


APPENDIX  401 


83D   Brigade,   Infantry — Brig.   Gen.   M.    Lenihan ;    165th   and 

166th  Regiments;  150th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
84TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  R.  A.  Brown;  167th  and 

168th  Regiments;   151st  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
67TH    Brigade,    Field   Artillery — Brig.    Gen.    G.    C.    Gatley ; 

149th,    150th   and    151st   Regiments;    117th   Trench   Mortar 

Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 117th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 117th  Field  Signal  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 42d    Division    Headquarters    Troop;    149th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 


2ND  ARMY  CORPS 

Major  Gen.  Robert  Lee  Bullard,  Commanding. 

4th  Division,  Regular  Army;  28th,  (Pennsylvania,)  30th, 
(Tennessee,  North  and  South  Carolina,  and  District  of  Colum- 
bia), and  36th  (Missouri  and  Kansas)  Divisions,  National 
Guard;  77th  (New  York)  and  82d  (Georgia,  Alabama,  and 
Florida)   Divisions,  National  Army. 

4TH  DIVISION — Major  Gen.  George  H.  Cameron,  command- 
ing; Lieut.  Col.  Christian  A.  Bach,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major 
Jesse  D.  Elliott,  Adjutant  General. 

7th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  B.  A.  Poort,  39th  and  47th 
Regiments;   nth  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

8th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  E.  E.  Booth;  58th  and 
59th  Regiments;   12th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

4th  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  E.  B.  Babbitt;  13th, 
1 6th  and  77th  Regiments;  4th  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 4th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 8th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 4th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  10th  Ma- 
chine Gun  Battalion. 

28TH    DIVISION— Major    Gen.    C.    H.    Muir,    commanding; 

(Chief  of  Staff  not  announced)  ;  Lieut.  Col.  David  J.  Davis, 

Adjutant  General. 
55TH    Brigade,   Infantry — Brig.   Gen.   T.   W.    Darrah;    109th 

and  110th  Regiments;  108th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
56TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Major  Gen.  William  YYeigel ;  nith 

and   112th  Regiments;   109th  Machine  Gun   Battalion. 
53RD  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  W.  G.  Price,  107th, 


402  APPENDIX 


108th,  and  109th  Regiments;  103rd  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 103d  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 103d  Battalion. 
Division   Units — 28th   Division   Headquarters   Troop;     107th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

30TH  DIVISION  (Wild  Cat)—  Major  Gen.  Edward  M.  Lewis, 
commanding;  Lieut.  Col.  Robert  B.  McBride,  Chief  of  Staff; 
Lieut.  Col.  Francis  B.  Hinkle,  Adjutant  General. 

59TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Lawrence  D.  Tyson; 
117th  and  118th  Regiments;  114th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

6oth  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Samuel  L.  Faison;  119th 
and  120th  Regiments;  115th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

55TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced) ;  113th,  114th  and  115th  Regiments;  105th  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 105th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 165th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 30th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  113th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

35TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  Peter  E.  Traub,  commanding; 

Colonel  Robert  McCleave,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  J.  M.  Hob- 
son,  Adjutant  General. 
69TH    Brigade,    Infantry — Brig.     Gen.     Nathaniel    McClure; 

137th  and  138th  Regiments;  129th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
70TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Charles  I.  Martin;  139th 

and  140th  Regiments;  130th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
6oth     Brigade,   Field  Artillery — Brig.   Gen.    L.   G.    Berry; 

128th,   129th,  and  130th  Regiments;   110th  Trench  Mortar 

Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 110th   Battalion. 
Division    Units — 35th    Division  Headquarters    Troop;    128th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

77TH  DIVISION  (Upton)— Major  Gen.  George  B.  Dun- 
can, commanding;  (Chief  of  Staff  not  announced);  Major 
W.  N.  Haskell,  Adjutant  General. 

153D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Edward  Wittenmeyer ; 
205th  and  306th  Regiments;  305th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

154TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Evan  M.  Johnson;  307th 
and  308th   Regiments;  306th  Machine  Gun   Battalion. 

152D  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Thomas  H.  Reeves; 
304th,  305th  and  306th  Regiments;  302d  Trench  Mortar 
Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 302d  Regiment. 


APPENDIX  40^ 


Signal  Troops — 302c!  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 77th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  304th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

82D  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  W.   P.   Burnham,  commanding; 

Lieut.   Col.   Royden   E.   Beebe,  Chief  of  Staff;   Lieut.   Col. 

John  R.  Thomas,  Adjutant  General. 
163D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Marcus  D.  Cronin;  325th 

and  326th  Regiments;  320th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
164.T11  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Julian  R.  Lindsay;  327th 

and  328th  Regiments;  321st  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
157TH    Brigade,    Field    Artillery — Brig.    Gen.    Charles    D. 

Rhodes;  319th,  320th  and  321st  Regiments;  307th  Trench 

Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 307th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 307th  Battalion. 
Division  Units — 319th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

3D  ARMY  CORPS 

Major  Gen.  William  M.  Wright,  commanding. 

3d  and  5th  Divisions,  Regular  Army;  27th  (New  York)  and 
33d  (Illinois)  Divisions,  National  Guard;  78th  (Delaware  and 
New  York)  and  80th  (New  Jersey,  Virginia,  Maryland,  Del- 
aware, and  District  of  Columbia)  Divisions,  National  Army. 

3D  DIVISION — Major  Gen.  Joseph  T.  Dickman,  commanding; 

Colonel  Robert  H.  Kelton,   Chief  of  Staff;   Captain  Frank 

L.   Purndon,  Adjutant  General. 
5th   Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.   F.  W.   Sladen;  4th  and 

7th  Regiments ;  8th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
8th  Brigade,  Infantry — (Commanding  officer  not  announced)  ; 

30th  and  38th  Regiments ;  9th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
3D  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  W.  M.  Cruikshank; 

10th,  76th  and  18th  Regiments;  3d  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 6th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 5th  Battalion. 
Division  Units — 3d  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  7th  Machine 

Gun  Battalion. 

5TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  John  E.  McMahon,  command- 
ing; Colonel  Ralph  E.  Ingram,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  David 
P.  Wood,  Adjutant  General. 

9th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  J.  C.  Castner;  60th  and 
61st  Regiments;   14th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 


404  APPENDIX 


ioth  Brigade,  Infantry — Major  Gen.  W.  H.  Gordon;  6th  and 
nth  Regiments;   15th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

5th  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  C.  A.  F.  Flagler; 
19th,  20th,  and  21st  Regiments;  5th  Trench  Mortar  Bat- 
tery. 

Engineer  Troops — 7th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 9th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 5th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  13th  Ma- 
chine Gun  Battalion. 

27TH  DIVISION  (New  York)— Major  Gen.  J.  F.  O'Ryan, 
commanding;  Lieut.  Col.  Stanley  H.  Ford,  Chief  of  Staff; 
Lieut.  Col.  Frank  W.  Ward,  Adjutant  General. 

53D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Alfred  W.  Bjornstad; 
105th  and  106th  Regiments;  105th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

54TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Palmer  E.  Pierce;  107th 
and  108th  Regiments;  106th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

52ND  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  George  A.  Win- 
gate;  104th,  105th  and  106th  Regiments;  I02d  Trench  Mor- 
tar Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — I02d  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — io2d  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 27th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  104th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

33D  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  George  Bell,  Jr.,  commanding; 
Colonel  William  K.  Naylot,  Chief  of  Staff;  (Adjutant  Gen- 
eral not  announced). 

65TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Edward  L.  King;  129th 
and  130th  Regiments;   123d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

66th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Paul  A.  Wolff;  131st  and 
132nd  Regiments;    124th   Machine   Gun   Battalion. 

58TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  James  A.  Shipton; 
i22d,  123d  and  124th  Regiments;  108th  Trench  Mortar  Bat- 
tery. 

Engineer  Troops — 108th  Battalion. 

Signal  Troops — 108th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 33d  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  112th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

78TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  James  H.  McRae,  command- 
ing; Lieut.  Col.  Harry  N.  Cootes ;  Chief  of  Staff;  Major 
William  T.  MacMill,  Adjutant  General. 

155TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Mark  L.  Hersey;  309th 
and  310th  Regiments;  308th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 


APPENDIX  4o{ 


156TH   Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  James  T.  Dean;  311th 

and  312th  Regiments;  309th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
1530  Brigade,   Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Clint  C.   Hearn ; 

307th,   308th    and   309th    Regiments;   303d    Trench    Mortar 

Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 303d  Regiment. 
Signal  Troop — 303d  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 78th    Division    Headquarters    Troop;    307th 

Machine  Gun   Battalion. 

80TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  Adelbert  Cronkhite,  command- 
ing; Lieut.  Col.  William  H.  Waldron,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major 
Steven  C.  Clark,  Adjutant  General. 

159TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  George  H.  Jamerson, 
317th  and  318th  Regiments;  314th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

i6oth  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Lloyd  M.  Bratt;  319th 
and  320th  Regiments;  315th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

155TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Gordon  G. 
Heiner;  313th,  314th  and  315th  Regiments;  305th  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 305th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 305th  Battalion. 

Division  Units— -80th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  313th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

4TH  ARMY  CORPS 

Major  Gen.  George  W.  Read,  commanding. 

83d  (Ohio  and  Pennsylvania),  89th  (Kansas,  Missouri 
South  Dakota,  Nebraska,  Colorado,  New  Mexico,  and  Ari- 
zona), 90th  (Texas  and  Oklahoma),  and  92d  (negro  troops) 
Divisions,  National  Army;  37th  (Ohio)  and  29th  (New  Jersey, 
Virginia,  Delaware,  Maryland  and  District  of  Columbia)  Divi- 
sions, National  Guard. 

29TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  C.  G.  Morton,  commanding; 
Colonel  George  S.  Goodale,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  James 
A.  Ulio,  Adjutant  General. 

57TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Charles  W.  Barber;  113th 
and  114th  Regiments;  mth  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

58TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  H.  H.  Bandholtz;  115th 
and  116th  Regiments;  112th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

54TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced) 110th,  1  nth  and  112th  Regiments;  104th  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 


4c6  APPENDIX 


Engineer  Troops — 104th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 104th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 29th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  110th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

37TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  C.  S.  Farnsworth,  command- 
ing; Lieut.  Col.  Dana  T.  Merrill,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  Ed- 
ward W.  Wildrick,  Adjutant  General. 

73RD  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  C.  F.  Zimmerman;  145th 
and  146th  Regiments;   135th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

74th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  W.  P.  Jackson;  147th  and 
148th  Regiments;   136th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

62D  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced) ;  134th,  135th  and  136th  Regiments;  112th  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 112th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 112th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 37th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  134th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

83RD  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  E.  F.  Glenn,  commanding; 
Lieut.  Col.  C.  A.  Trott,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  James  L. 
Cochran,  Adjutant  General. 

165TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Ora  E.  Hunt;  329th 
and  330th  Regiments ;  323d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

i66th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Malin  Craig;  331st  and 
332d  Regiments;  324th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

158TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Adrian  S.  Flem- 
ing; 322d,  323d,  and  324th  Regiments;  308th  Trench  Mortar 
Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 308th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 308th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 83d  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  322d  Ma- 
chine  Gun  Battalion. 

89TH  DIVISION— Brig.  Gen.  Frank  L.  Winn,  commanding; 
(Acting)  Colonel  C.  E.  Kilbourne,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major 
Jerome  G.  Pillow,  Adjutant  General. 

177TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Frank  L.  Winn;  353rd 
and  354th  Regiments;  341st  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

178TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Thomas  G.  Hanson; 
355th  and  356th  Regiments;  342d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

164TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Edward  T.  Don- 
nelly; 340th,  341st  and  342d  Regiments;  314th  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 


APPENDIX  407 


Engineer  Troops — 314th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 314th  Battalion. 

Division   Units — 89th   Division    Headquarters    Troop;    340th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

90TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  Henry  T.  Allen,  commanding; 

Colonel  John  J.  Kingman,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  Wyatt  P. 

Selkirk,  Adjutant  General. 
179TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  John  T.  O'Neill ;  357th 

and  358th  Regiments;  344th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
i8oth  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  W.  H.  Johnston;  359th 

and  360th  Regiments;  345th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
165TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Francis  C.  Mar- 
shall;    343d,    344th,    and    345th    Regiments;    315th    Trench 

Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 315th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 315th  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 90th    Division   Headquarters    Troop;    349th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

92ND    DIVISION— Major   Gen.    C.   C.    Ballou,   commanding; 

Lieut.  Col.  Allen  J.  Greer,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  Sherburne 

Whipple,  Adjutant  General. 
183D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Malvern  H.  Barnum,  365th 

and  366th  Regiments ;  350th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
184TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  W.  A.  Hay;  367th  and 

368th   Regiments;   351st   Machine   Gun   Battalion. 
16/TH    Brigade,    Field   Artillery — (Commanding   officer   not 

announced)  ;    349th,    350th    and    351st    Regiments;    317th 

Trench  Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 317th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 317th  Battalion. 
Division   Units — 92d   Division    Headquarters    Troop;    349th 

Machine   Gun   Battalion. 


5TH  ARMY  CORPS 

Major  Gen.  Omar  Bundy,  commanding. 

6th  Division,  Regular  Army;  36th  (Texas  and  Oklahoma) 
Division,  National  Guard;  75th  (New  England),  79th  (Penn- 
sylvania, Maryland  and  District  of  Columbia),  85th  (Michigan 
and  Wisconsin),  and  91st  (Washington,  Oregon,  Alaska,  Cali- 


4o8  APPENDIX 


fornia,  Idaho,  Nevada,  Montana,  Wyoming  and  Utah),  Divi- 
sions, National  Army. 

6TH  DIVISION — Brig.  Gen.  James  B.  Erwin,  commanding; 

Colonel   James   M.   Pickering,   Chief  of   Staff;   Lieut.   Col. 

Robert  S.  Knox,  Adjutant  General. 
iith  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  W.  R.  Dashiell;  51st  and 

52d  Regiments;   17th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
I2th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  J.  B.  Erwin;  53d  and  54th 

Regiments;  18th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
6th  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  E.  A.  Millar;  3rd, 

nth,  and  78th  Regiments;  6th  Trench  Mortar  Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 318th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 6th  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 6th    Division,    Headquarters    Troop;    16th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

36TH   DIVISION— Major   Gen.   W.   R.    Smith,   commanding; 

Colonel  E.  J.  Williams,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  William  R. 

Scott,  Adjutant  General. 
7IST  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Henry  Hutchings;  141st 

and  I42d  Regiments;  I32d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
72D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  John  A.  Hulen;  143d  and 

144th  Regiments;  133d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
6ist  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  John  A.  Stevens; 

131st,  1320!  and  133d  Regiments,  111th  Trench  Mortar  Bat- 
tery. 
Engineer  Troops — inth  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — inth  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 36th    Division    Headquarters    Troop;    131st 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

76TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  Harry  F.  Hodges,  command- 
ing; (Chief  of  Staff  not  announced);  Major  George  M. 
Peek,  Adjutant  General. 

151ST  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Frank  M.  Albright;  301st 
and  302d  Regiments;  302d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

152D  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  F.  D.  Evans;  303d  and 
304th  Regiments;  303d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

151ST  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Major  Gen.  William  S. 
McNair;  301st,  302d,  and  303d  Regiments;  301st  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 301st  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 301st  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 76th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  301st 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 


APPENDIX  409 


79TH  DIVISION — Major  Gen.  Joseph  E.  Kuhn,  commanding; 

Colonel    Tenny    Ross,    Chief   of    Staff;    Major    Charles    B. 

Moore,  Adjutant  General. 
157TH   Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  William  L.  Nicholson; 

313th  and  314th  Regiments;  311th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
158TH     Brigade,     Infantry — (Commanding    officer     not     an- 
nounced); 315th  and  316th  Regiments;  312th  Machine  Gun 

Battalion. 
154TH   Brigade,   Field  Artillery — Brig.   Gen.  Andrew  Hero, 

Jr.,  310th,  311th  and  312th  Regiments;  304th  Trench  Mortar 

Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 304th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 304th  Battalion. 
Division  Units — 79th    Division    Headquarters    Troop;    310th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

85TH  DIVISION— Major  Gen.  C.  W.  Kennedy,  commanding; 
Colonel  Edgar  T.  Collins,  Chief  of  Staff;  Lieut.  Col.  Clar- 
ence Lininger,  Adjutant  General. 

169TH  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Thomas  B.  Dugan; 
337th  and  338th  Regiments ;  329th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

170TH  Brigade,  Infantry — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced) ;  339th  and  340th  Regiments ;  330th  Machine  Gun 
Battalion. 

i6oth  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Guy  M.  Preston; 
328th,  329th  and  330th  Regiments;  310th  Trench  Mortar 
Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 310th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 310th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 85th  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  328th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

flST  DIVISION— Brig.  Gen.  F.  H.  Foltz,  commanding;  Col- 
onel Herbert  J.  Brees,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  Frederick  W. 
Manley,  Adjutant  General. 

i8ist  Brigade.  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  John  B.  McDonald;  361st 
and  362d  Regiments;  347th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

182D  Brigade.  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  Frederick  S.  Foltz;  363d 
and  364th  Regiments:  348th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

i66th  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Edward  Burr; 
346th,  347th  and  348th  Regiments;  316th  Trench  Mortar 
Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 316th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 316th   Battalion. 

Division  Units — 91st  Division  Headquarters  Troop;  346th 
Machine  Gun  Battalion. 


4io  APPENDIX 


UNASSIGNED  TO  CORPS 

81ST    DIVISION— Major    Gen.    C.    J.    Bailey,    commanding; 

Colonel  Charles  D.  Roberts,  Chief  of  Staff;  Major  Arthur 

E.  Ahrends,  Adjutant  General. 
i6ist  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  George  W.  Mclver;  321st 

and  322nd  Regiments;  317th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
162D    Brigade,    Infantry — Brig.    Gen.    Monroe    McFarland; 

323d  and  324th  Regiments;  318th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 
156TH  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — Brig.  Gen.  Andrew  Moses; 

316th,   317th   and  318th   Regiments;   306th   Trench   Mortar 

Battery. 
Engineer  Troops — 306th  Regiment. 
Signal  Troops — 306th  Battalion. 
Division    Units — 81st    Division    Headquarters    Troop;    316th 

Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

93RD  DIVISION— (Commander  not  announced)  ;  Major  Lee 
S.  Tillotson,  Adjutant  General. 

185TH  Brigade,  Infantry — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced); 369th  and  370th  Regiments;  333d  Machine  Gun 
Battalion. 

i86th  Brigade,  Infantry — Brig.  Gen.  George  H.  Harries; 
371st  and  372d  Regiments;  334th  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 

i68th  Brigade,  Field  Artillery — (Commanding  officer  not  an- 
nounced) ;  332d,  333d  and  334th  Regiments;  318th  Trench 
Mortar  Battery. 

Engineer  Troops — 318th  Regiment. 

Signal  Troops — 318th  Battalion. 

Division  Units — 332d  Machine  Gun  Battalion. 


D 

570.9 

G5 


HBAEQUARTKRS  THIRD  ATCiX  CORPS 

AioricM  Expeditionary  Forces, 

Franoe,   July  17.  1918. 


o-t-c    ;  pi  '  !*o-  si...  fc-.s 

.tel  c-.i  .^.^sts  oi  the  i.t-  .•_/   £  •".  '--■--.     s.    two 
t  r.re  Jmorni  tlirougliffut  Tr'-noa. 

sers  caia  nen  oi  the  Third  Corps,  you  have  been  . 
•  -rfy  to  be  pieced  beside  the  best  vetemi  Frenoli  troops. 
u  prove  worthy.     Renar.ber  that  in  wh-t  is  no-;;  coning 
you  r  .  lo  Ar.crio.in  nation. 


R.    I.   BULLAKD, 

Major  General, 

Go.-,  landing  3rd  Corps. 


UNION 


WESTE 

ANGLO  -AMERICAN 

CABEeCRAM 


DIRECT  UN!TED*STATBS 


Received  at  16  BROAD  STREET,  NEW  YORK 

- 


HAEF   25 


30N8     SELWN     AND     CO 
J45f    95VAY      NYK 

■  -|  -    (mk  psn6d  it  is  brwgihg 
isblegraus  pr0      your  aubibfces  p^riop 
per: 


Wforo 


: 


COMMISSARIAT     GENERAL 
DES     AFFAIRES     OE      GUERRE 
FRANCO- AMERICAINES 


»~t? 


3   1205  00117  6021 


< 


REPUBLIQUE    FRANCA1SE 


/VA    000  774  044 


-ftf/ 


■ 

eureux  do  vt.ua  felicii  -  decoration 

•  •' .    diatinghtfe.7- 


Paris,  August  6.   I9I8. 


.      )»£  . 
jpondimt  4"  caio 

1  de  la  Sir^ne, 
LUX. 


jeer  iJr.  .ilbcons, 

General  retain  has  notified 
me  that  the  French  «si  Cro6B, 
with  one  palm,  has  been  conferred 
upon  you. 

I  take  pleasure  in  oongratu- 
.  latlng  you  upon  this  decoration 
whloh  you  have  so  well  merited  by 
your  courage  and  your  devotion  to 
duty. 

Aocept,  detr  i^r.  .ribbons,  the 
assurance  of  my  profound  regard. 


■MM 

I!    !    •::■■      Mil.:;      i      I!      I  {   ill   (       II    1 1!)    i 

:i  j!|    ii  i;i  "I  Hi   lilli  Hi       III  :l 

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